Botswana: Stigmatisation at the hospital

My story begins the day I went to the hospital with swollen genitals. I was scared and in pain, hoping to get help as anyone else would. When the doctor asked what happened, I was honest and told him it had happened after sex with my boyfriend. His reaction was instant and filled with anger. He told me that “men’s private parts cannot be used with other men,” and that what I was experiencing was my fault. He insisted there was no medication for someone like me.

What hurt even more was knowing that a friend of mine, a heterosexual man with the same issue, had been treated at the same hospital. When I asked why my friend received help, and I didn’t, the doctor brushed me off, saying it was “a different story” and told me to look for assistance somewhere else. I left the hospital feeling humiliated, rejected, and painfully aware of how unsafe healthcare can be for people like us.

I decided to try a nearby clinic instead, one close to where I live. There, I sought out a nurse I had met a few times at local bars and clubs, someone I felt might at least treat me with dignity. She referred me to another practitioner who assisted me without judgment, without insults, without hesitation. That day, I promised myself I would never return to that hospital again. I felt safe for the first time, simply because someone had finally treated me like a human being.

Experiences like mine show that most healthcare workers in Botswana’s public clinics and hospitals need proper training on how to treat key populations. Too many of them are openly rude, discriminatory, and quick to label us with harmful names. We deserve better. The government needs to create same‑sex IEC materials and make public clinics safer and more welcoming for LGBTIQ people.

One statement that has stayed with me, a painful reminder of what many believe, is the doctor’s words: “One man’s private parts cannot be used by another man for sex.” It is the kind of thinking that endangers lives.

Stigma in healthcare is one of the biggest barriers we face. Many nurses and doctors do not approach us professionally. Some greet us as “dumela mma,” even when our gender presentation clearly doesn’t match that expectation. You can feel the resistance in their tone, their body language, as if touching us or helping us might contaminate them. The difference in how heterosexual and homosexual patients are treated is obvious and deeply painful.

To anyone going through something similar: never lose hope. Stand up for your rights. Report nurses and doctors who refuse to help you, because when we stay silent, we create a situation where people fear going to clinics or hospitals for essential services like condoms, HIV testing, and STI treatment. That fear contributes to the spread of HIV and AIDS. We must protect ourselves by demanding the care we deserve. Also, seek out supportive organisations. They exist, and they can walk with you through this journey.

As for the future, I dream of a Botswana where LGBTIQ people no longer fear entering a clinic or reporting a crime. I want to see members of our community hired in hospitals, clinics, and even the police. Knowing that a KP‑friendly healthcare worker is on duty could save lives. We deserve a country where access to health services is not determined by our sexuality, but by our humanity.