But with Trump’s executive order, the future of Pepfar and other global health initiatives became uncertain. The impact was felt immediately in countries like South Africa, which has the largest number of people living with HIV in the world. The closure of NGOs and suspension of aid meant that many people like Samkelo and Siphesile were left without access to life-saving medication.
As the days passed and their supply of antiretrovirals dwindled, Samkelo and Siphesile became increasingly desperate. They tried reaching out to local clinics and government health centers, but were met with long waiting lists and bureaucratic red tape. They even considered turning to the black market, where counterfeit drugs were rampant and often ineffective.
Despite their dire circumstances, Samkelo and Siphesile refused to give up hope. They shared their story with local journalists and activists, hoping to raise awareness about the impact of Trump’s executive order on people living with HIV in South Africa. Their story spread quickly, garnering attention from international organizations and governments.
Eventually, their perseverance paid off. With pressure mounting on the US government, Trump was forced to reverse his decision and reinstate funding for global health initiatives like Pepfar. Samkelo and Siphesile were able to access the medication they needed, and their health slowly began to improve.
As they looked back on those dark days, Samkelo and Siphesile knew that they had faced the unimaginable and come out stronger on the other side. They vowed to continue fighting for the rights of people living with HIV, ensuring that no one would ever have to go through what they had experienced.
Their story became a symbol of resilience and determination in the face of adversity, inspiring others to stand up for justice and equality. And as they walked side by side, hand in hand, towards a brighter future, they knew that together, they could overcome any obstacle that came their way.
“I thought I was a good person,” he told the pastor, crying. “I’ve always paid my tithes, I’ve never hurt anyone. Why would God do this to me?”
The pastor had known Samkelo since he was a boy. “Sometimes God allows things to happen to us so that we can be a light to others,” he said.
Samkelo’s light flickered for months. He stopped paying his rent, stopped going to work, stopped seeing his friends. He spent days on the couch watching TV, eating junk food, his eyes glazed. He knew he should be on antiretrovirals but he was too ashamed to go to the clinic. When he finally did, in January, he sat on the plastic chair in the waiting room and felt his heart pounding in his chest.
Then the nurse called him in. She was young, with a bright smile and a gentle voice. She explained that the antiretrovirals wouldn’t cure him, but they would keep the virus at bay. She told him about Pepfar, how it had saved millions of lives in Africa. She asked him if he would let her help him find his light again.
Samkelo nodded, tears streaming down his face. He took the medication she gave him, and for the first time in months, he felt a glimmer of hope.
“I don’t know what the future holds,” he said, “but I know that I want to live.”
They were protesting the high cost of antiretroviral drugs, which were unaffordable for most people in South Africa at the time. Achmat, a well-known HIV activist, had publicly declared that he would not take antiretrovirals until they were made available to all who needed them, regardless of their ability to pay.
The protest sparked a national debate and put pressure on the South African government to change its policies. Eventually, the government agreed to provide antiretrovirals through the public health system, leading to a significant increase in access to treatment for people living with HIV.
Achmat’s activism and the actions of many others in the fight against HIV/AIDS in South Africa have had a lasting impact on the country’s response to the epidemic. Today, South Africa has one of the largest HIV treatment programs in the world, providing antiretroviral therapy to millions of people.
As Samkelo and others continue to navigate the challenges of living with HIV in a changing political landscape, they draw strength from the legacy of activists like Zackie Achmat who fought for access to life-saving treatment for all. Their resilience and determination inspire hope for a future where HIV/AIDS is no longer a death sentence, but a manageable chronic illness.
Samkelo felt a sense of impending doom as he sat in his friend’s bedroom. The uncertainty of not knowing if he would be able to access his life-saving medication weighed heavily on him. The thought of running out of pills was like a loud bell ringing in his mind, reminding him of the harsh reality he faced.
Despite reaching out to his friend for reassurance, the fear and doubt continued to linger. The closure of the clinic and the limited supply of antiretrovirals in the country left him feeling vulnerable and anxious.
As the rain continued to pour outside, Samkelo’s worries grew. The uncertainty of the situation was overwhelming, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending disaster. The future was uncertain, and the consequences of not having access to his medication were too grave to comprehend.
One of these students is Aisha, a young woman from a small village in Upper Egypt. She had dreams of becoming a doctor and was thrilled when she received the scholarship to attend the American University in Cairo. Now, with the funding suspended, her future is uncertain. She is studying day and night, hoping that somehow a solution will be found.
Another student, Ahmed, comes from a disadvantaged neighborhood in Cairo. He was the first in his family to attend university, thanks to the scholarship. Now, he is worried that all his hard work and dreams will be shattered because of the funding cut. He is trying to stay positive, but the uncertainty is taking a toll on him.
These are just two of the many stories of students affected by the funding suspension. Their hopes and aspirations hang in the balance, dependent on decisions made far away. As they wait for answers, their future remains in limbo.
Heba Saleh is the FT’s North Africa correspondent in Cairo
” En Liberia, el condado de Sinoe, donde los bosques tropicales son densos, las personas han dependido de la tala como fuente de ingresos durante décadas. La tala es ilegal, el trabajo es arduo y el dinero es escaso, pero los residentes siguen talando árboles y convirtiéndolos en carbón para la venta. Incluso durante la devastadora guerra civil que estalló en 1989 y duró casi una década, la tala financió parcialmente a las fuerzas rebeldes.
En noviembre pasado, una ONG estadounidense llamada GiveDirectly lanzó un proyecto piloto para incentivar a los residentes a dejar de talar, con transferencias de efectivo directas, financiadas con la ayuda del gobierno irlandés. En lugar de dar sermones a las personas pobres sobre la importancia de la naturaleza, GiveDirectly ofrecería pagos a las personas que viven junto a los bosques a cambio de preservar los árboles. Estas personas están en su mayoría fuera de la red de seguridad social del gobierno.
GiveDirectly contaba con la financiación de USAID para ampliar el proyecto, con una inyección planificada de $5 millones. El objetivo era expandirlo al norte de Liberia. USAID ya había colaborado con GiveDirectly en numerosos proyectos en el país, pero el congelamiento de Trump deja al proyecto con un futuro incierto y la ONG está luchando por encontrar financiadores sustitutos.
Hablé con un trabajador del sector que dijo que el impacto había sido más duro en el personal local. “Hay personas que ganan $1,000 al mes, que es una cantidad decente de dinero en esta parte del mundo, que no solo tienen que cuidar de su familia inmediata, sino que tienen dependientes fuera de esa familia. Muchas de estas personas se quedarán sin trabajo y tendrá un efecto dominó en el bienestar de las comunidades y en el trabajo de reducción de la pobreza”, dijo el trabajador, que pidió no ser nombrado. “No se equivoquen, nuestra industria está en un estado de flujo en este momento”.
Aanu Adeoye es corresponsal de FT en África Occidental.