HIV is not the problem

Recently, a friend of mine flew into Toronto for a visit. My place was too small to be shared between two people, so I checked out the airbnb site and found him a communal home where several people lived. When I sent my friend information about the house, he was quite elated to read that the residents shared many of his own values and lifestyle and dietary practices. I was really happy to have found the place since most of the other bnbs looked a bit too stuffy for an artistic wunderkind like my friend.

My friend arrived and I helped him settle at the home. He would stay for the next 3 weeks in order to connect with musicians who might be interested in working with him on his musical odyssey. All of that began to fall into place as he hit the pavement and began to expand his network here in the urban jungle. He exuded warmth and did not feel inhibited as he struck conversations with musicians, bar patrons, and friends at the open mics he performed at. He received a welcoming ear among the crowds, and support and encouragement from new and old faces.

He struck up similar conversations with his housemates and in an effort to tell them more about his personal story, he gave his card to one of the residents, who then checked out the website. Well, I'll inform you all here that my friend is open about his HIV status, which he spells out in colouful text under his alter ego's section on the website. This resident upon reading this information about my friend, then notified other residents of my friend's status. One person who frequented the house refused to come while he was there. I'm not sure if this person was given appropriate information about HIV, but they eventually sort of came around as I was told.

The owner of the house told my friend that he should have disclosed his status from the beginning. Soon, many of the residents were walking on eggshells around him when just a few days before they were warm and welcoming. Now, it seemed they didn't know what to say to him. Their discomfort was obtrusive, but my friend didn't take it to heart and responded by providing the owner with website reources such as TheBody.com to help educate. I also supported my friend by writing an email to the owner outlining some of the basic myths and facts of HIV, the reality of stigma and discrimination against poz peeps, and ways to educate and stay informed. I offered to invite my colleagues at ASAAP to hold a HIV 101 workshop at the residence along with a grounding activity so everyone would feel safe, most especially my friend. The owner responded by asking if the email could be forwarded, and I gave the OK.

Even though the owner had responded that things were much better now that some of the other residents who were apparently well-informed about HIV were back in the house, my friend continued to experience a sort of arms length distancing and contrived friendliness among some of the folks there.

It's the 21st century, but some folks choose to live in a past largely constructed by irresponsible and inaccurate media hype when facts and realities about the condition were still being formulated. I'm surprised that a household that prides itself on establishing a sustainable communal lifestyle was unable to extend that care and compassion to a fellow human being who respected the rules and policies of the house, and made the effort to reach out to the residents and give them an opportunity to learn something new about the human condition and the diversity of struggle, suffering, and triumph. I would think that if we are to apply social justice practices in our daily lives, it demands that we raise our consciousness and foster understanding. What does inclusion and anti-oppression really mean if they only serve as catch phrases to pad our egos?

What this incident showed me was that despite all the great gains that have been made in HIV treatment and care which has resulted in the overall improvement in the lives of poz communities, programs that educate and raise awareness to help fight HIV stigma must continue full steam if we are to see greater positive shifts in attitude and knowledge among the status quo. It's largely due to the work, advocacy, commitment and courage of many many poz individuals, their supporters and allies, and AIDS service organizations that advances have been made. I'm proud to stand by all of them, including my friend, as we act diligently to soften hearts, transform minds, and nurture our collective and love-affirming humanity.


*In writing this post, my intention was not to judge people's behaviour. I acknowledge that some people struggle with OCD, and so situations such as this might trigger fear or anxiety. They too are suffering from a condition, and should be provided with all the information they need to feel at ease and safe. In order to challenge HIV stigma, it requires compassion for all.

I see you, I hear you

Everyday we are bombarded with some of the worst news known to humankind. Stories of disturbingly cruel crimes and armed conflicts that surpass our imaginations on the power of our species to destroy without mercy. Will there ever be an end to it all? Will there ever be a day that will come when there are no incidents of the evil that humans do to other humans, to animals, to the earth, and to future generations who haven't been born as yet but who will inherit this ravaged tortured planet?

Every time I read these stories, the hope I have for our world goes down a couple notches and I begin to see the whole of reality the same way these reports depict it: a world filled with murderous, ravenous trigger-happy, knife-wielding people who have either lost complete control of their senses (and their hearts) or are so immersed in greed and sadism that their only objective in life/death is to exact maximum pleasure from the pain and suffering of others, for profit, for vengeance, for whatever. No matter what they may say, such acts are not rational and cannot be justified.

Still, there is no power in viewing these people as separate from myself. If conditions demanded, I might also engage in such acts knowing the full battery of human emotion and how with just the right triggers, I might snap and act against my better judgement. The best way for me to view a threat as no longer a threat is to understand its psychology and take it apart so I can see the life path that emboldened some of us to commit such atrocities. I've read books about how our brains and minds work, how the experiences of early childhood could impact our responses to circumstance in adulthood, how armed conflict and war can destroy our life-affirming spirits and create ongoing tragedies that spiral downwards towards an inescapable vortex where death shatters and scatters.

Where is god in all this, I sometimes wonder? Where are the angels that gather around the victims to protect them and give them the strength to fight off their killers and escape the profundity of the evil staring back at them?

I've read quite a bit on the whole theory of how our thoughts have the power to create realities. And I'm now trying to put that into practice - although most times I forget and respond to the news with worry and dejection, perhaps contributing more of that hate-filled gleam in our universe, so when tomorrow comes, we end up reading the same news of murder and mayhem over and over again. But what if we could respond in less typical ways in order to harness healing energy around these stories so the damage doesn't keep infecting our consciousness. Empathy automatically shifts our reactions to shock, anger, and dismay at the unnecessary loss of life. So, we turn to the victims in grief, and marvel at the audacity of the perpetrators in curiosity, horror, and contempt, soon to be replaced by outright condemnation of their vile acts.

What if we could nurture empathy for the perpetrators too? Would that, could that create the possibility of a transformation? How to empathize with such individuals? While I think we can all empathize with anyone, some of us have had life experiences that have compelled us to welcome that gift instead of shunning it. We are constantly placed in situations where we must make the choice between to love and to reject. Call me stupid, but I choose love, any and every time, regardless of whose eyes I'm looking into. I can't explain it, but that's been my inclination, almost automatic, since coming to an understanding of my own suffering, and learning to take accountability and ownership of that suffering. I have a great desire to understand everyone, and particularly understand those who have followed a criminal path, whether in war or in civil society.

I see the circle that connects us all, and have come to the conclusion that there can never be any such thing as "us" and "them", for, despite the uniqueness of our lives and environments, we all retain the same essential spirit. I've been able to look past what's on the surface of someone's persona, all their behaviours and bad tragic choices, and discovered that the ugly, messy, traumatized, and dazed parts of themselves failed to rob them entirely of their potential to seek redemption and do some good. But getting them to be aware of that potential is the challenging part because it requires that I get close enough to them to develop a friendship where trust, compassion, and love are the building blocks. It requires that I myself do not get eaten up alive by the person's destructive tendencies, and in order to prevent this, I hold space within the center of the loving energy that we both embody, the energy we were essentially born with.

I know this must all sound rather nonsensical since I'm not giving examples of what I mean exactly, but in a few months, you'll all see what I mean. Stay tuned for the presentation of my first one-person play since 2007's Shiny Ropes. Read the synopsis below, and you'll either think me as someone completely off her rocker OR you might see a little of what I'm trying to accomplish through the lives of the characters in this story - based on true life events - who have changed my life forever so much so that I have nurtured the ability to see everyone as part of myself, and to see myself as part of everyone. No separation. No finger-pointing. Only the following words resonate inside my heart and mind: "Yes, I see you, I hear you. And I know you and know your pain."

Peace.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence

During the second U.S.-led military invasion and occupation of Iraq in 2003, hundreds and thousands of Iraqi civilians were subjected to violent deaths as a result of an armed, foreign military presence. The deaths of civilians in this period saw a tragic increase from the first invasion of Iraq in 1991. The embattled region remains in chaos and its people deeply affected by the horrors they had witnessed.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence is a one-person theatre production with music about a U.S. soldier living out the rest of his life in solitary confinement for crimes he committed while stationed in Iraq. The story of Private First Class Leonard Purple is a profound and disturbing exploration of a troubled American youth's indoctrination into military invasion, racism, occupation, and violence. After receiving the toughest sentence of life without parole out of a group of five soldiers charged with the rape and murder of an Iraqi teenager and the murders of her family, he sits in a solitary jail cell back in the U.S. as turbulent memories of the past invade his mind. In an attempt to take accountability for his actions, Purple begins writing a series of letters to Fatima Qureshi, the girl he had killed. What follows is an unexpected transcendence where identities converge and then merge, and where Purple suddenly finds himself on the side of the Occupied. As this alternate reality unfolds changing the landscape of his prison cell, Purple hears the voice of Fatima through his own as she delivers a repertoire of haunting ballads on piano to reclaim the life she knew in one final act of resistance and repossession.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence has no entertainment value. It is not a show or a spectacle. It is a story to remember and to honour the young spectres of war and violence whose lives were mercilessly stolen, and whose spirits yet remain, roaming in anticipation of liberation. 

Why More Than Fiction should be on everyone's fall reading lists

The front cover of More Than Fiction reflects all the intersectional layers of Poz women's realities as they journey through the torrents in order to catch site of guiding lights along the way. COVER & BOOK DESIGN BY ZAHRA AGJEE

"These are beautiful stories of love and loss, faith and miracles, strength and community, and smiles and tears that speak to the strength of the storytellers. Each story stands as a powerful example of women who have thrived in the face of HIV stigma and each provides a universal lesson in resilience." - Shannon Ryan, Black Coalition for AIDS Prevention (BlackCAP)

More Than Fiction is a beautifully crafted collection of 12 profoundly intimate and introspective narratives written by South Asian women living with HIV/AIDS. The writers worked throughout the spring and summer of this year to draft their creative non-fiction stories and fantasies that express both their struggles through the dark days of an HIV diagnosis and their triumphs as they navigated networks of support to find care, compassion, kindness, knowledge, friendship, and love. 

I urge you, dear reader, to explore these 12 honest and inspiring stories and greet these writers' perspectives on life, love, self-care, dreams, and their relationships with their families, friends, colleagues, lovers, partners, and children, with open minds and hearts, and with a strong desire to challenge your own assumptions, biases, and prejudices about people living with HIV/AIDS. 

The fact that these women cannot disclose their real identities is a testament to the silencing intensity of HIV stigma. If they were to disclose, will they be shamed? Judged? Denied friendship and intimacy? Pushed out by their families and communities? Or physically and emotionally harmed? Find out what the historical pattern has been in our societies, and then you'll know. And when you know, do something about it, help make the answer to every one of these questions a resounding "NO"!

Yes, it takes courage to speak out and be open about identities and health, but it also takes tremendous courage to hold it all in, day in and day out, and continue to put a strong face forward, continue to care, to support, to love. And these writers speak to that and more in More Than Fiction. 

Everyone's making reading lists this fall. I encourage you to add More Than Fiction to that list because it's just one of those collections you won't be able to put down until you've read the very last page. And it won't end just there. There is no "The End". After reading these stories, there is work to be done in our communities, far and wide, to support healing and to help change people's perceptions of and responses to people living with HIV/AIDS, so they can get the support and care they need to survive and thrive. 

Thanks to the Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention for submitting the project proposal to MAC AIDS, who gave the project a thumbs up and provided generous funding to help the writers achieve their goals. The project team also included two brilliant mavens, creative writing and photo art facilitators, respectively: Sheniz Janmohamed and Zahra Agjee. 

The book is available free of charge. To order your copy, please contact phasupport@asaap.ca.

To Wax or not to Wax, that is the question!

For the last few days, I've been revisiting my relationship with my facial hair. Most days, when those pesky hairs start poking themselves through my pores, and growing into hard stubborn strands, it's me who gets the brushing of the coat, and not my kitty!

Like many women whose ethno-racial heritage have origins in that most ancient of subcontinents, I have struggled long and hard with coming to some acceptance of my body's unflattering locks. But more and more, as I come to understand the complexity of my own gender identities, I am kinda liking, even loving the weekly Amazonian forest overgrowth.

I mean, at some point in my life, I'm going to have to raise my hands in resignation, and say, "Ok, Chewbakkah, you win!" Incidentally, "Chewbakkah" was the name of my on-air name when I co-hosted a show on CiTR 101.9fm back in my UBC days. Oh yeah, I took the piss out of it all, but deep down - not that deep actually, maybe even a bit shallow - I just hated it all. I hated waking up to it every morning, and hesitating before looking at myself in the mirror, aghast to find that more had grown overnight!! The torture of it all!

So, I'd reach for the ol' tweezers and spend away a beautiful morning plucking the revolting beauty suckers out of their sockets, so I can once again feel like I'm any other normal-as-plaid girlie girl!

But it turns out, I got more in my genetic make-up than I bargained for. Then again, birth ain't a negotiation when you're slipping and sliding outta your mom's passageway! No choice! Just come out already, and deal with whatever package you've been given.

Ok, I think many of us gals could actually deal with our packages if society wasn't telling us ALL THE BLOODY TIME that something's just not right about our face, our arms, our eyebrows, our butts, our boobs, and all the cells of our personhood.

When are we going to realize that all those things are part of our womanhood, and not the other way around? Not ripping our skins out because we don't look like the airbrushed, hairless photos of models who are also going through their silent self-hatred of all things hairy, and some of 'em face even worse terrors that the beauty industry enforces.

This time around, I really wanted to just let it all grow, and be happy with it, to just love every single follicle that all comes together to create this most beautiful of beards and mustaches. I wanted to just leave my home, with courage, to face the morning commuters with joy and contentment as I stroked my stubbly chin.

But it didn't happen. I caved in. Applied those murderous wax strips to my already pock-marked face, and with a force equivalent to a knockdown by a heavyweight boxer, I pulled those damn strips off my chin, cheeks, jaws, neck, upper lip, lower lip, temples, 'tween the brows, and anywhere else I could, holding my breath in hopes that I'd see a sizeable area of now dead hair on the strips, and a clear, smooth region of near baby skin on soon-to-be acceptable visage! Oh, the sheer joy of it all!

Sadly, the strips never quite do their job. Or maybe I'm just not a master facial waxer. Maybe I need to just go to the salon and let the pros take care of it. Ha ha, the irony of it is that I won't let anyone else touch my face for fear that they might harm it during the waxing, because it has happened. I've been burned by the scorching sensation of hot wax. The next day, as the wound dried, friends would wonder if I had gotten myself into a bit of a temperamental bar fight. I kept my chin up, stayed silent as strong as an ox, and allowed them to make up their own stories. That's always fun. I get to have a bit of a reputation then, "Oh yeah, did you hear about Shaz? She's some tough bitch! Gettin' into all kinds of scraps and skittles."

Seriously, though, something's gotta give. One day, I'm going to wake up, and realize that those wax stips, for all the masked beauty they might potentially bring to this very sad of sad faces, did more harm to my sense of self than anything else.

I'm sure if I spoke to my therapist and recounted all those childhood run-ins with the cruel racist jokes my peers would make about me, hollering to the world that I was half-man, half-girl, she'd say my present relationship with my facial hair had a lot to do with all that. No kidding, Sherlock.

Even though my mighty hopes for conquering my facial hair woos did not materialize this week, I do have hope that the more comfortable I start feeling in my combo male-female spectrum physicality and identities, someday I'm going to walk right past the hair killers' aisle and love-a-dub-rub this happy, special body and soul that my mom and dad brought into existence with the genes of their ancestors and with the love they felt in their hearts at that magical pleasurable moment. Two of the dearest people in my life came together and asked the universe for yet another glorious gift: Me.

In this moment of...

Experience calmness of mind and body at Allan Gardens Conservatory. 

Wars were raging out in our world that day. News of children buried under blasted concrete, its mangled pieces crushing the hearts of the ones who never got a chance.

Wars raging here, too. A different kind. Our hearts bleed but we shoot. Fire. Detonate. Crush. With fiery locution.

So, I escaped during a momentary lull in the fracas between two warring souls of the North.

I walked into this breathing space where foliage and flower extended their joyful salutations. Toured the grounds, saw the baby raccoons confused by the daylight, caught red-handed in their overnight traps. But their fate is freedom, not eradication.

My eyes floated with the koi. My ears tuned into the stream's trickling murmurs, and the silent wanderings of its inhabitants. 

Like the turtles treading serenity, popping their stripy slippery heads in and out of their safe hiding appendage, I, too, hid away in this place of irony - where nature flourishes under the care and life-sustaining tools of its dedicated human gardeners. Do the petals bloom in Gaza, even among the most anguished cries of the captive and the killer? Irony blossoms in all spaces, as dark and unyielding as human cruelty is. 

In this moment of tranquility, I will catch my breath, will heal my wounded tongue, will revive my conscience, will honour the dead and dying who will never see my world.

With the memory of this moment, I may face the storms outside again with self-effacing tenderness. 

I may agree to a cease-fire.