>The last time I was in Kampala, I met a brother and sister who had contracted HIV from their mother. The boy, whom I will call Peter (I've also changed the names of his friends and family), was just two days shy of his 16th birthday, and betrayed no visible signs of sickness. When I was introduced to him, in the Uganda offices of the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation, not far from the city center, he was wearing his school uniform, a dark- green sweater over a white collared shirt. He looked a little bookish, with a round face, thin wire-rimmed glasses, and hair cropped tight to his skull.
I sat with Peter at the corner of a long conference table, and he quietly told me his case history. He'd been sick often as a child, he said, fighting off fevers, diarrhea, painful blisters, and hacking coughs. But it wasn't until he was 10 that he learned that he was infected with HIV. His mother, then expecting her sixth child, had tested positive during a prenatal HIV test and brought her children in to be examined. In Uganda, patients qualify for anti retroviral treatment when their CD4 count, a rough measure of the health of the immune system, falls below 250. Peter's clocked in at 54. He was immediately started on medication, a cocktail of pills taken twice a day.
With treatment, he remembers, his health improved quickly and dramatically. But then, at age 13, the markers of his illness returned: diarrhea, fevers, vomiting. While we spoke, he pulled up the sleeves of his sweater to show me where the rashes had come back. "These are scars from them," he said. "They come like sores, too many sores. When you scratch it, there comes a wound."
Not coincidentally, 13 was also the age at which Peter had begun boarding school--a common form of education in Uganda, even for low-income families. He lived in a cramped dormitory with about 40 other children and little privacy. Peter was keen to keep his condition secret, so he had arranged to store keep his pills in the assistant headmaster's office, on the far side of the school. "I had to wake up very early in the morning, before anyone sees me, to go in and take the medicine," Peter told me. "And then I had to come back, prepare myself, go to classes." In the evening, he would trek to the office again for another dose. But his office visits did not go unnoticed, and one day a couple of classmates walked in on him while he was taking his pills. Peter told them that the medication was for asthma, but they didn't believe him.
Their suspicions were confirmed, more or less, by Peter's English teacher, a tall, skinny man from northern Uganda, who would lecture the class on the evils of AIDS. "He would say, 'Some of us in class here, they didn't tell us they're HIV- positive. But we teachers, we know,' " Peter said. "He used to point at me, so that my friends started asking me, why is he always pointing at me." The man grew disdainful, calling Peter "useless" and "good for nothing," refrains quickly picked up by the children.
The taunts become more direct. When Peter coughed, a classmate would call out, "Remove your HIV from us!" "You didn't abstain well," a fellow student would sing; you're "a disgrace to your parents," another would jeer. A few close friends refused to believe the rumors, but mostly, the students shunned him. "You would give them something to eat, they would refuse it," he said. "They don't like sitting with you. They don't want to share anything with you." His peers began calling him a "zombie," Peter said, "someone is dead but still walking." Some older kids at the school began bullying and beating him.
For a while, Peter tried to sidestep his problems by skipping school. He'd sneak off campus in the morning to play soccer with local boys. But at some point during the school year, his avoidance took a different turn. Tired of the twice-daily office visits, of the constant needling, of being reminded day after day of his condition, he simply stopped taking his pills. "For me, it felt good," he said. "Because I knew I was going to leave those people who were discriminating against me and go somewhere else."
What followed was entirely predictable: Peter's health deteriorated rapidly, and his classmates shunned him all the more aggressively. Bouts of illness would leave him dehydrated and exhausted. One friend, a young man named Andrew, stayed true to Peter, helping him gather his books when he was strong enough to attend class--and nursing him when he wasn't. "He would wash me," said Peter said, "because I wasn't having strength to wash myself." As Peter's health worsened, Andrew sought permission to bring him back to his mother, and eventually took him to her, carrying him home on his back. Andrew refused to believe his friend was suffering from AIDS, Peter told me. And Peter never managed to tell him. "He's my closest friend," Peter said. "He knows everything about me. But I've failed to tell him that I'm HIV-positive."