I learned about my diagnosis after arriving in Switzerland, following severe itching and fever. In Turkey, I had not wanted to get tested—out of fear that I would be forced to stay. When I took an HIV test here and the doctors told me, “We’re sorry, you are HIV-positive,” I was paralysed for days. I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t understand what was happening to me. It was only a friend I had studied with who explained to me that I was living in a country where no one has to die of AIDS anymore. That gave me courage. At the beginning I had to take three pills a day; today, one is enough.

When I was in the asylum centre, I shared a room with many other Syrians. I was afraid someone might see my medication or ask questions. Through a volunteer at the centre, I was put in touch with an HIV counselling service—I first only confided that I am gay. She then introduced me to a very kind social worker, and that changed everything. His name is Kandid Jäger, and I would like to thank him here for his extraordinary support.

Access to treatment in Switzerland has always been good. I speak English, I had excellent doctors, and I was always treated correctly and with respect—regardless of my residence status. During the asylum procedure, I mentioned my HIV status in the interview. Sitting opposite me was a Syrian interpreter. It was one of the most difficult moments of my life, but I had to tell the truth. He promised he would not tell anyone. Because of my health situation, I later received a B permit. Sometimes I even say that HIV helped me stay in Switzerland. It is part of my life—an “friend” who accompanies me.

In my community, HIV is surrounded by shame. It is not only about one’s own reputation, but also about the family’s. Many believe you get HIV only because of “bad behaviour.” That is not true, but the prejudices run deep. That’s why, when someone asks what my pills are, I say, “They’re vitamins—we don’t get much sun in Europe.” Outside the HIV counselling centre, only two people know my status.

In everyday life, it is mainly the daily medication that reminds me of HIV. Sometimes I am tired of it, sometimes angry. At work, my status has no influence—people there only know that I am gay.

What do I wish for? More information and more openness. Families and communities need knowledge, not fear. Positive examples matter—people who live long and healthy lives with HIV. Many refugees carry heavy burdens: war, flight, loneliness. We should tell them: you are safe, you have access to treatment, you have a right to be happy. And there needs to be awareness-raising in asylum centres—many queer people live there without being out. They need protected spaces where they can speak. Sexuality is part of life, and we need to talk about it too.

My message to everyone living with HIV who arrives in Switzerland: don’t be afraid. Take your medication and keep your appointments. When the viral load is undetectable, you can even have children. And we must not forget: many Swiss people also know very little about HIV. Knowledge is the key.