HIV Media Guide: Promoting accurate and respectful conversations

by James Gray, Health Equity Matters

The story of HIV, and particularly the stories of people with HIV have been at an intersection of complex changes in the Australian community.

A central part of this story has been the incredible activism across communities to build a response where people with HIV, and those communities affected by HIV, strove to be at the centre of decision making.

The stigma associated with HIV was strong from the start and continues through to today. This was intrinsically linked to the stigma and discrimination many of the communities most impacted by HIV were already facing.

From then to now

In response to problematic early reporting on HIV/AIDS, the community HIV response needed to change the narrative.

This involved both directly telling our own stories and working with the media to ensure that we were heard through mainstream channels.

Much of this work pre-dated the development of a formal media guide but laid the foundation of what would later be implemented.

The HIV Media Guide was developed to support journalists to report on HIV in an informed and balanced manner.

In 2025, HIV no longer sees regular detailed reporting across traditional media.

Nevertheless, there are opportunities to both proactively pursue media opportunities, as well as responding to stories that arise.

The intersection between the public health response to HIV and the justice system remains one of the most problematic and complex stories that we continue to see. This often involves the intersection of stigma and discrimination with outdated and inaccurate stereotypes about the people affected by HIV.

However, there are also good stories to tell. These include advances in medicine, improved treatment options, the effectiveness of pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP), and the science behind undetectable viral load (UVL) and treatment as prevention (TasP).

We also want to ensure that people with HIV see themselves reflected in this media, as spokespeople about their own lives and experiences.

Topics Covered by the HIV Media Guide

The Media Guide is split into the following sections:

• Recommendations for accurate reporting on HIV
• Appropriate language guide
• The facts about HIV
• Reporting on crucial HIV issues
• HIV statistics and data in Australia
• HIV and the law
• Australia’s world-leading HIV response
• Global HIV response

These sections combine to provide a comprehensive guide for journalists to ensure their HIV reporting is accurate, sensitive and balanced.

What the HIV Media Guide does

We know that most journalists want to report on important issues in detail, as well as provide the community with important information about what is happening in society.

The guide provides important context on crucial HIV issues, such as treatment as prevention, cure research, PrEP, and HIV-related criminal cases. This supports accurate reporting that gets the facts straight. Additionally, and like any professional group, journalists may come to their work with a mix of conscious and unconscious biases.

That’s where the HIV Media Guide comes in. As a resource tailored for media use, it supports and guides journalists to engage with our communities in a sensitive and appropriate manner. This includes (but is not limited to) the use of appropriate language and terminology, ensuring that journalists don’t inadvertently alienate communities or fuel stigma by using outdated or clumsy language.

For additional resources for journalists, the HIV Media Guide provides links to the latest data and facts about HIV. There is a huge amount of data produced about the HIV response in Australia. This has a lot of benefits for organisations and communities, but at times can mean that things are taken out of context. The HIV Media Guide also provides this context, so reporting on HIV is as accurate and informed as it can be.

What it cannot do

At the end of the day the HIV Media Guide is simply that – a guide. It doesn’t instruct journalists what they can and can’t report on. Nor can it mandate certain perspectives or use of language.

It is at its most useful when it is used alongside a conversation with any journalists that you may be engaging with to build rapport and understanding – although we know that in the age of constant deadlines, they tend to be time poor!

Challenges

The HIV Media Guide was designed with ‘traditional media’ in mind. Despite the challenges being faced by the industry, journalists and media organisations will remain a vital pillar of community discourse.

Nevertheless, the way that many people are consuming their news is changing. This may have implications for how the HIV Media Guide is used and promoted in the future. Engagement with different types of content creators may be necessary to inform discussions about HIV and promote accurate and respectful conversations.

Additionally, most people are now aware that there are going to be major disruptions within the HIV response internationally due to reductions in foreign aid. The implications of this will be devastating for people with HIV and there is a likely to be a resurgence in HIV transmission in countries that rely on aid for access to treatment and PrEP.

This is a situation that must be reported on, but we also need to ensure these stories are reported on appropriately, and that we consider the impact of this on local communities.

The HIV Media Guide is available for everyone to promote in their work or community engagement. And while it is designed for journalists, it is not just for journalists! If you have feedback on the content, we would love to hear it.

The Silent Crime of Loving

by Babi Poudel

Babi shares her experiences of seeking connection, acceptance and being viewed through the eyes of others as a trans woman living with HIV

Before swipes and bios, before hashtags and colored pride flags, there was only longing—a deep ache in the bones. It wasn’t for sex. It was for witnessing. To be seen. To be held under the brightness of day, not hidden after dark.

Back then, in dusty rooms in Nepal and Mumbai, I found hope in penpal ads. I circled names in Bombay Dost and Trikone Magazine. These classified spaces became my compass—tiny flickers of connection. Because for someone like me—a brown, transgender woman from the hills of Nepal—love wasn’t a romantic poem or a dinner date. It was survival. It was lipstick at midnight and dignity before dawn. It was about making it through another night with my truth intact.

Within each of us, there lives a quiet hunger—a longing to be seen not merely as bodies or shadows, but as whole beings worthy of tenderness and genuine care. This hunger gnaws at me deeply, whispering endlessly through the nights I spend alone, reminding me of all the ways in which the world tells me I am unworthy of love. At fifty-three, as a transgender woman from Nepal carrying the weight of HIV, I wear a thousand suns etched upon my skin, each line narrating journeys filled with resilience and heartache. My body does not meet society's harsh standards of beauty; my curves are subtle, my skin weathered by life's relentless demands. Yet all I desire is gentle companionship—a connection pure enough to exist without suspicion, without judgment, without fear.

Yet each day, I wrestle with haunting questions that refuse to grant me peace: Am I not beautiful enough? Is my skin not soft enough, my appearance not appealing enough for the simplest kindness? Or is it my age, my transgender identity, the stigma of my HIV status, that so sharply repels even the quietest touch of affection? These unanswered questions echo painfully in the spaces others leave vacant.

There was once a man whose friendship blossomed into something deeply precious. For almost two years, we nurtured a bond of mutual respect, sincerity, and genuine human warmth. It was simple friendship, untouched by romance or hidden intentions—only kindness shared openly, honestly. Then one day, in an unconscious moment of innocent affection, my hand brushed softly against his. It was brief, unplanned, without motive or hidden agenda. Yet within his mind, this gentle gesture became distorted, transformed into something dark and threatening.

“You tried to seduce me!” he accused, voice trembling, eyes burning with suspicion and anger. I stood frozen, stunned by the absurdity of his accusation. How could I, who had never once crossed the threshold of his bedroom, never invaded his private space, be accused of manipulation, of abuse? His accusations felt impossible, surreal, cruelly unjust. His physical strength eclipsed mine—how could he see me as a threat?

But truth no longer mattered. Fear had already taken root, twisting reality beyond recognition. He shouted defensively, almost desperately, “I’m heterosexual!” as if our friendship alone endangered his identity. Then he pressed harder, the cruelty sharpening with every word: “Are you on antidepressants? Do you have mental health issues?” Each question struck like a blow, accusations hurled to justify his sudden withdrawal, to erase the tenderness we once shared. In moments, his fear and judgment shattered my heart.

My world collapsed. Anxiety rose violently within me, choking me, relentless and suffocating. Tears flooded my face uncontrollably as my mind raced in confusion. I begged myself silently, “Babi, stop crying. Love yourself. Accept yourself.” Yet my heart continued to break, overwhelmed by pain, disbelief, humiliation.

In my anguish, I wondered endlessly—why does my kindness provoke fear? Why do men reject me so harshly? Is it because of the whispered hints of HIV, the lingering stigma society holds against me as a trans woman? Why must innocent affection be mistrusted, twisted into something sinister simply because of who I am?

I have travelled widely—through Nepal’s peaceful hills, Mumbai’s crowded streets, even Melbourne’s gleaming avenues—searching desperately for a basic understanding, for acceptance free of prejudice and hidden judgment. Instead, I discovered silence, rejection, hidden love expressed only in shadows, never openly acknowledged. Men embraced me privately when their wives slept unaware, yet discarded me like shame at sunrise, unwilling or unable to face love that defies society’s rigid categories.

I never sought romance, never chased temporary desire or secret pleasures. All I wanted was sincere companionship, genuine affection untainted by expectations of sex or romance. But society consistently twisted my simple, innocent intentions into dark suspicions, branding me dangerous, manipulative, untrustworthy.

Yet, despite the crushing weight of judgment, misunderstanding, and rejection, I still believe fiercely in love. I refuse to accept that my age, my HIV status, my transgender identity somehow exclude me from compassion or genuine human connection. I refuse to let stigma define me or discrimination silence my heart. I refuse loneliness simply because the world cannot yet fully understand who I am.

True love is deeper than flesh, stronger than temporary desire. True love is holding someone’s hand without fear, sharing quiet moments free of suspicion. It is being seen, accepted, cherished completely—beyond appearances, beyond stigma, beyond society’s cruel judgment.

Standing alone in my pain, tears drying silently upon my face, I finally understand a vital truth: I must love myself fiercely, unconditionally, precisely because the world remains determined to misunderstand me.

This story is dedicated to all who, like me, have suffered silently, unfairly judged in love, rejected by a society struggling to understand. Your hunger for connection is valid. Your heart deserves respect and care. Your very existence should inspire love, not fear or judgment.

I will keep believing, I will keep reaching, I will keep hoping—even if the world refuses to believe in me.

How Panic and Fear about HIV in the ‘80s Fed into Australia’s News Coverage

by Rafael Gerster

In the first of his three-part feature series, Rafael Gerster explores how the Australian media reported on HIV during the early years of the epidemic.

When HIV started spreading rapidly through Australia in the early 1980s, Ross Duffin initially found it amusing that the media was linking the virus with the gay community.

The first AIDS story Duffin read back in the ‘80s was headlined “gay cancer”.

“I was involved in a volunteer radio program on cancer and we all made these jokes about the notion of cancer being gay and we thought it was quite ridiculous.”

But Duffin, a gay man and former HIV activist who has been HIV positive since 1987, slowly became more disturbed. Media coverage was not only inaccurate, but it was also starting to disempower gay men.

“There were all kinds of horror stories from the media, with headlines saying that gay men were spreading AIDS and this was all led by the mainstream press,” he says.

This kind of hostile reporting from the mainstream press prompted the gay community to feel “under siege”.

“Prior to HIV coming along, gay men were breaking out of the community and constructing friendship networks that were more diverse,” Duffin says. “That whole process stopped.”

“We went back into the community and that’s where we sought safety and protection.”

The negative news coverage was indeed commonplace. When the virus started to spread in the early 1980s, theories pointed to a causal link between HIV and homosexuality. This link set the tone for the news media coverage throughout the 1980s, with mainstream newspapers using terms such as ‘the gay plague’ and ‘homosexual cancer’ to describe the illness.

According to La Trobe University sociologist Jennifer Power, commentaries in major press outlets ran with allegations that gay men were maliciously infecting the blood supply after it became known that one could acquire HIV through blood transfusions.

Headlines like those leading the 1984 Daily Telegraph front page: ‘Gays Accused of Giving Blood Out of Spite’ could not help but criminalise the gay community.

But it was when health authorities started calling for the punishment of gay men who donated blood that the media coverage started jostling with civil rights.

Power found a Brisbane Courier-Mail article from 1984 which suggested gay men who called for civil rights were being selfish and irresponsible.

“HIV prevention was used to justify the curtailment of rights for gay men and lesbians, obscuring the moral opinion embedded in these calls.”

Robert Hewson, a member of the gay community who has been HIV positive since 1983, says he was mostly unaffected by this harmful news coverage of HIV during the 1980s.

“I had a support group of gay friends, so I wasn’t relying on the conservative media,” he says. “I tended to just ignore it.”

Hewson would gain “factual information” by “tapping into the clinics” or by reading gay

community media sources such as The Melbourne Star Observer and Outrage rather than the “conservative media”.

But Hewson found that the negative discourse around HIV spilled into his workplace.

“In the early ‘80s I worked as a geologist in Queensland,” he says. “It was a conservative occupation and so called professional colleagues joked that AIDS was a death sentence.”