Why AIDS Remembrance Still Matters in 2025: Queer Grief, Collective Memory & HIV Activism
As World AIDS Day 2025 approaches, I’ve been reflecting on where we stand as a community, not in a neat arc of progress, but at a complicated crossroads.
Decades of activism, loss, and medical breakthroughs have transformed HIV for many of us, especially in the Global North, into a manageable chronic condition. But those gains are not evenly felt. The horrors of the past are still loud, and for millions around the world, especially across the Global South, the crisis isn’t “history.” It’s ongoing, immediate, and shaped by structural barriers that can’t be wished away.
For those of us who are queer, especially trans, non-binary, and gender-diverse, the legacy of the AIDS crisis is personal. It lives in our community’s grief, our shared memory, and our resilience. It’s the loss of elders we never got to meet, the brilliance stolen too soon, and the networks of care that queer and trans people built when no one else showed up. That history belongs to us.
Tens of millions of our people in our community have died of AIDS-related illnesses since the epidemic began, and around 40.8 million of us are living with HIV today. Behind those numbers are stories of survival and struggle that continue to shape who we are, from cities with well-funded clinics to communities still fighting for basic access to medication, testing, and human rights.
This post isn’t about trauma for trauma’s sake. It’s about why AIDS remembrance still matters in holding the grief honestly, celebrating the progress we have made, and acknowledging the disparities that persist. It’s about grounding ourselves in collective memory, refusing to forget the people we’ve lost, and pushing toward a future where access, care, and liberation aren’t determined by geography, wealth, or identity.
The Legacy of Loss — and What We Carry
The AIDS epidemic of the 1980s and 1990s reshaped our community in ways that are still felt today. It didn’t just “impact LGBTQ+ people”; it tore through our circles, our chosen families, our gathering places, and our sense of safety.
A generation of mostly gay and bisexual men was lost, alongside countless transgender women, sex workers, people of colour, and others pushed to society’s margins. These weren’t abstract victims. They were our elders, our icons, our lovers, our would-be mentors.
The grief that followed was unlike anything our community had ever faced. At the height of the crisis, AIDS became the leading cause of death for young American men, and globally, more than two million people were dying every year. In the absence of government support and often in the abandonment of biological families, we cared for one another. Friends became nurses, lovers became advocates, and hospital rooms and funerals became the places where chosen family held each other together.
The AIDS Memorial Quilt, first laid out in 1987, became one of our most potent expressions of grief and resistance. Panel by panel, stitch by stitch, it grew into a 54-ton tapestry with nearly 50,000 names: a monument made not by institutions but by us. A place where our grief could be seen, where love was recorded in fabric, where activism and mourning fused into something unignorable. As John Cunningham of the National AIDS Memorial has said, in those darkest years, the Quilt was both comfort and confrontation, a way to help survivors heal while forcing the world to witness what was happening to us.
That era of loss left deep scars on our collective memory. Many of our community elders carry the trauma of watching friend after friend die, often in silence, often without dignity. So many talk about a “lost generation”: artists whose work we’ll never see, organisers whose leadership we needed, queer ancestors we deserved but were denied.
And yet, from that grief came a determination that their deaths would not be for nothing. Our mourning became mobilisation. Candlelight vigils, quilt ceremonies, marches, and the first World AIDS Day in 1988 all became ways to honour those we lost while fighting like hell for the living. Even Pride, often mistaken for purely celebratory, has grown into a space where remembrance sits alongside resistance. We march because so many can’t. We celebrate because they deserved more time. We carry their legacy because we’re still here.
Remembering our dead has always been both an emotional necessity and a political act. It’s part of how we hold each other, how we honour our history, and how we stay committed to protecting our people now, especially those who are still facing the most challenging conditions and the fewest resources.
Why AIDS Remembrance Matters
Every December 1st, on World AIDS Day, our communities gather in person, online, in quiet moments, in loud protests to remember our dead and stand with those living with HIV. It’s not morbid. It’s not performative. It’s one of the ways we stay connected to who we are and how we got here. AIDS remembrance has always been a form of strength, clarity, and collective grounding.
Remembering the painful history of the crisis matters for a lot of reasons:
Honouring a generation we lost: Quilts, names read aloud at vigils, digital memorials, oral histories, these are how we keep the stories of our people alive. More than 44 million lives have been lost worldwide, and queer and trans histories are already so often erased or sidelined. Remembering is part of protecting what little historical record we have.
Passing knowledge to those who didn’t live through it: Most younger queer and trans people didn’t experience the nightmare years of the epidemic firsthand. Archives, documentaries, community elders, and platforms like the AIDS Memorial Instagram help us understand the world our elders inherited and the one they fought to change. This closes the generational gap, builds gratitude, and reminds us to stay vigilant.
Keeping activism alive: Remembrance isn’t just mourning; it’s mobilisation. Projects like the Quilt didn’t only honour the dead, they exposed indifference, cruelty, and government failure in ways no press release ever could. World AIDS Day events continue to spark fundraising, advocacy, and public pressure. They remind the world that behind “data” are people we loved, people who deserved more time.
Healing together, not alone: When we gather at a vigil or a community dinner, we create space for shared grief and shared grounding. We remind each other that you’re not carrying this alone. Allies are welcome in these spaces, but they’re not centred; the point is our collective healing, our collective memory, our collective future.
In 2025, AIDS remembrance is still a radical act of love and defiance. It says our people’s lives mattered and still matter: queer and trans folks, people of colour, sex workers, people who use drugs, migrants, and, especially, those in countries where resources are scarce, and the fight remains brutally unequal. Holding memory is part of how we resist the idea that HIV and AIDS are “over” just because treatment is easier to access in some parts of the world.
As the saying goes, what is remembered lives.
And our people, those we lost, those still fighting, those living with HIV today live on in every bit of progress we fight for, every act of care we offer each other, and every step we take toward a future where no one is left behind.
Activism as Survival, Activism as Legacy
If grief was the fuel, activism was the engine that kept our community alive through the AIDS crisis. When governments looked away, and stigma ran rampant, we organised fiercely, creatively, and unapologetically. We built the clinics we needed. We cared for each other when no one else would. And we took to the streets because silence was already killing us.
Groups like ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) didn’t just protest; they shifted the entire direction of the epidemic. “Silence = Death” captured the urgency and rage that so many in our community felt. ACT UP’s actions were bold on purpose: blocking traffic, storming scientific conferences, wrapping Senator Jesse Helms’ house in a massive condom, even scattering the ashes of loved ones on the White House lawn. We forced the world to look at what it was trying to ignore. Every action was designed to be undeniable.
And it worked.
“Drugs into bodies!” became a rallying cry because people were dying while bureaucracy dragged its feet. Under activist pressure, particularly from ACT UP’s so-called “Science Club,” a group of community members who taught themselves virology and regulatory law, the FDA implemented the parallel track in 1990, allowing people access to experimental HIV treatments long before formal approval. That shift didn’t come from polite advocacy. It came from us refusing to accept the pace of institutional negligence.
Our activism didn’t stop at medication access. We founded organisations like Housing Works, harm reduction programs, and needle exchanges; we fought for healthcare, housing, and dignity because we knew HIV doesn’t exist in a vacuum. We fought for the whole ecosystem that helps people survive.
And it’s vital to remember that HIV activism has always been intersectional, not because it was trendy, but because it had to be. Black queer organisers, trans women, sex workers, people who inject drugs, migrants, and poor and working-class folks were at the heart of this movement. They still are. Groups like Gay Men of African Descent, the Minorities Task Force, and trans-led collectives demanded that the needs of our communities, especially those facing racism, misogyny, transphobia, and economic injustice, be centred.
There were real victories, too. In 1986, activists (including Keith Haring) defeated California’s Proposition 64, which would have mandated mass HIV testing and quarantine. We pushed back against travel bans, insurance discrimination, and efforts to isolate and stigmatise people living with HIV. Every time someone tried to legislate our people out of public life, we met them with organised, relentless resistance.
This movement, built out of love, rage, and a refusal to disappear, became the blueprint for community-led public health. Nothing for us without us wasn’t just a slogan; it was a truth we lived by. And it changed the world.
We carry that legacy with us today, in activism that continues wherever our people are fighting for access, dignity, and the right to live.
From Breakthroughs to Reality — How Science Changed Lives
Thanks to decades of activism, community pressure, and scientific innovation, the trajectory of HIV has shifted dramatically but not evenly, and not for everyone. For many of us, the mid-1990s marked a turning point. In 1996, the arrival of highly active antiretroviral therapy (HAART) transformed HIV from an almost certain death sentence into a chronic, manageable condition. It wasn’t a miracle that fell from the sky; it was the result of relentless pressure from our communities demanding better.
AIDS-related deaths dropped rapidly in parts of the world where treatment was accessible. And over time, those early drug “cocktails” evolved into today’s one-pill-a-day regimens that are easier on the body, more effective, and far more sustainable. By 2024, around 77% of people living with HIV globally were on treatment, a staggering accomplishment, but still a reminder that a quarter of people worldwide are not yet linked to lifesaving care.
One of the most transformative shifts we’ve seen is U=U (Undetectable = Untransmittable). When someone living with HIV is on treatment and achieves an undetectable viral load, they cannot pass the virus on. This fact, championed loudly and proudly by community activists, has changed everything. It gives people living with HIV the freedom to love, have sex, form families, and build futures without fear. U=U has cracked open stigma in a way science alone never could. It’s science powered by community.
Prevention has evolved, too. In 2012, PrEP became available as a daily pill that reduces the risk of acquiring HIV by over 99% when taken consistently. For many queer and trans people, PrEP has been a liberation tool: a path to sexual autonomy, peace of mind, and safety. But we have to say the quiet part out loud: access is wildly unequal. Only about 18% of people who could benefit from PrEP globally are actually able to get it. Geography, race, gender, class, criminalisation, and colonial legacies shape who gets access and who does not. That disparity is not accidental; it’s systemic.
Thankfully, innovation is still moving. Long-acting treatments now allow people living with HIV to get injections monthly or bi-monthly instead of taking daily pills, a massive step for anyone who deals with pill fatigue, inconsistent access, or stigma at home. And in 2023, we saw something genuinely new: lenacapavir, the first twice-yearly injectable PrEP option. One shot every six months could be life-changing, especially for people in communities where survival realities, discrimination, or resource scarcity make daily adherence difficult.
UNAIDS is calling this moment the beginning of an HIV prevention revolution. We’re exploring options like annual injections or monthly oral treatments that could bring new infections close to zero. But, and this is a big, necessary but, the revolution only becomes real if access is global, equitable, and affordable. As UNAIDS has warned, these innovations mean little if monopolies, patents, and politics keep them out of reach for countries in the Global South or for marginalised people everywhere.
In other words:
Science can get us close to ending AIDS.
Justice is what will decide whether we actually do.
The Hope and Reality of an HIV Cure
Alongside everything we’ve gained in treatment and prevention, one of the most hopeful frontiers is the pursuit of an HIV cure. For so many, the idea of a cure once felt almost impossible, something whispered about, not seriously discussed. HIV hides in dormant “reservoirs” deep in the body, making it incredibly difficult to eliminate. But in the last decade, we’ve seen glimpses of what might be possible.
In 2024, researchers announced the seventh documented case of an HIV cure, after a patient stayed in long-term remission with no viral rebound. As of 2025, at least ten people worldwide have been cured through rare and extremely high-risk interventions, usually bone marrow or stem cell transplants, done to treat cancer, which had the side effect of replacing their immune systems with cells resistant to HIV. These cases tell us something important: a cure is not a fantasy. It’s scientifically possible.
There are also people like Loreen Willenberg and the mysterious “Esperanza patient” individuals whose bodies naturally control HIV without treatment. They’re exceptionally rare, but they’re helping researchers understand what a “functional cure” might look like.
And still, we have to be honest: the cures achieved so far are not scalable. They’re dangerous, expensive, and absolutely not viable for the millions of people living with HIV globally. Knowing that keeps us grounded. It keeps us focused on the next steps rather than celebrating too early.
Researchers are exploring several promising strategies:
Gene editing (like CRISPR) to make immune cells resistant to HIV
“Block and lock” approaches to permanently silence the virus
“Shock and kill” strategies to flush out and destroy the hidden virus
Therapeutic vaccines that teach the immune system to control HIV
Immunotherapies that strengthen the body’s ability to fight back
Progress is steady, but slow. HIV is complicated, and the science is too. What gives us hope isn’t just the lab results, it’s the fact that people living with HIV are at the centre of cure research. Trials depend on the participation, expertise, and lived realities of our community. That includes analytic treatment interruptions, where participants pause therapy under careful medical supervision to test whether an intervention works. It’s risky, and it requires trust, which is why advocates insist that cure research be ethical, transparent, and inclusive.
Representation matters here. Studies need trans people, non-binary people, women, people of colour, and folks from the Global South groups, who are too often underrepresented in research but disproportionately affected by HIV. A cure that’s only tested on, or designed around, white cis men in wealthy countries isn’t a cure for all.
Right now, scientists are cautiously optimistic. We may genuinely see a cure or effective vaccine in our lifetimes. Every year, breakthroughs emerge in long-lasting antibodies, gene therapies, new vectors, and new models. Hope is real, and hope is earned.
But hope alone isn’t enough.
A cure won’t mean much if only wealthy nations can afford it. A “prevention revolution” won’t transform the world if it leaves the Global South behind. Pharmaceutical monopolies, patent restrictions, and international inequity continue to be as much of a barrier as the science itself.
So yes, we allow ourselves optimism. We deserve that.
But we stay clear-eyed, too. Because the work ahead isn’t just scientific, it’s political, economic, and deeply tied to justice. And that brings us to the inequalities we still need to confront.
Inequality, Criminalisation, and the Realities We Can’t Look Away From
One of the key messages of World AIDS Day 2025 is “Overcoming disruption, transforming the AIDS response.” It’s a reminder that, while we’ve made meaningful progress, the global picture remains deeply uneven and often unjust.
HIV has always been a story of inequality as much as a story of science. Wealthy countries have benefited from decades of investment, infrastructure, and political stability that many nations in the Global South have never been given access to. And while some of us now live in places where HIV is manageable, others in our community are still fighting uphill battles shaped by colonial legacies, underfunded health systems, and criminalisation.
Regions like Eastern and Southern Africa still bear a disproportionately high share of the epidemic. In 2023, about 26 million of the world’s 39.9 million people living with HIV were in sub-Saharan Africa. Young women and girls in these regions shoulder a hefty burden. Around 570 adolescent girls and young women were infected every day in 2024. That isn’t biology. That’s patriarchy. That’s poverty. That’s a lack of access to education, sexual health services, and bodily autonomy.
Meanwhile, in countries with robust healthcare systems, new infection rates have fallen sharply thanks to treatment and access to PrEP. But even there, inequality cuts through the data. In the United States, one in five transgender women is living with HIV and among Black trans women, it’s nearly one in two. Racism, transphobia, criminalisation, and economic marginalisation shape who gets access to care and who falls through the cracks. And the same patterns repeat across Europe, Australia, and Aotearoa New Zealand: gay and bisexual men of colour, migrants, sex workers, and people who inject drugs are consistently underserved.
Globally, the divide in access to treatment and innovation remains staggering. Countries in Western and Central Europe and North America have already surpassed the 90-90-90 targets and are pushing toward 95-95-95. Meanwhile, many low-income countries are still fighting to get children onto treatment. Only 55% of HIV-positive children worldwide have access to lifesaving meds, compared to 78% of adults. Even PrEP access mirrors these gaps: yes, South Africa and Kenya have made real strides, but many high-burden countries still operate tiny or pilot programs.
Then came the setbacks.
International funding for HIV dropped sharply in 2025. Clinics closed. Outreach workers lost their jobs. Testing shortages spread. Community-led organisations, the backbone of the HIV response, were suddenly being asked to do more with less. At the same time, the legal environment worsened. For the first time in over a decade, the number of countries criminalising same-sex activity or gender diversity increased. Uganda’s draconian laws weren’t an anomaly; they were part of a rising wave of repression. And when queer and trans people are forced underground, HIV services become nearly impossible to access safely.
To end HIV, we have to name these systems: criminalisation, colonial underfunding, health apartheid, misogyny, anti-trans violence, and the global political choices that decide whose lives are “worth” investing in.
Ending AIDS isn’t just about pills. It’s about rights.
This year, the World Health Organisation is pushing the message “My health, my right!” because we know that HIV risk comes not from identity but from being denied access to safety, autonomy, and care. Decriminalising homosexuality, gender non-conformity, drug use, and sex work saves lives, full stop. Empowering young women and girls, funding comprehensive sex education, and protecting LGBTQ+ communities from state violence saves lives, too.
And while inequities dominate the landscape, we can’t ignore the brilliance and leadership across the Global South. Countries like Botswana and Rwanda have achieved over 90% treatment coverage, outpacing many Western nations. When international funding collapsed, places like Uganda, Côte d’Ivoire, Nigeria, South Africa, and Tanzania increased domestic HIV investment to keep people alive. Communities stepped up, as they always do.
In Ethiopia, when systems faltered, young people formed WhatsApp groups to check on each other. Mothers organised themselves to ensure their kids got medication. Youth groups took to community radio to keep people informed. These stories echo the early days of AIDS activism, people refusing to let each other fall through the cracks.
Because at the heart of the HIV response from New York to Nairobi, from Rio to Kigali, from Auckland to Johannesburg is the same truth:
We save each other. We always have.
HIV Activism in 2025: New Challenges, New Voices
HIV activism looks different today than it did in the ACT UP years, but the mission is the same: protect our people, challenge injustice, and refuse to let anyone be left behind. We might not always be chaining ourselves to government buildings anymore (though some of us do), but activism is alive in policy rooms, on TikTok, in rural clinics, in mutual aid networks, and at global health summits where community voices finally have a seat and sometimes a microphone.
The movement has widened in ways our elders fought for.
Trans and non-binary advocates who were often sidelined in earlier decades are now leading HIV organisations, shaping policy, and demanding visibility for our communities’ specific needs. Young people born long after the height of the epidemic are launching brilliant stigma-busting campaigns online, shifting culture one post, one dance trend, one story at a time. And activism isn’t just happening in big Western cities. It’s happening in Nairobi, Port-au-Prince, New Delhi, Johannesburg, Kingston, Lima, Kiev, and across Aotearoa New Zealand, often led by those most impacted, who know what their communities need better than any global institution ever could.
In 2025, activism is tackling both familiar battles and entirely new ones:
Fighting stigma, internal and external.
Even with U=U, stigma persists: in workplaces, dating apps, families, and healthcare settings. Activists are countering it with Zero HIV Stigma Day events, art installations, theatre, podcasts, community-led education, and storytelling projects that humanise people living with HIV. We’re also doing the internal work pushing back against shame, reminding our own people that living with HIV doesn’t make anyone unlovable, unsafe, or “less than.”
Defending human rights.
With criminalisation on the rise, activists are back in courtrooms, parliaments, and international forums fighting laws that harm LGBTQ+ people, sex workers, migrants, and people who use drugs. “My health, my right” isn’t a slogan; it’s a demand. We’re pushing against HIV criminalisation laws and discriminatory practices that discourage testing and disclosure, because no one should face prosecution simply for existing.
Ensuring access to innovation.
As long-acting PrEP options like lenacapavir emerge, we’re organising to make sure these breakthroughs don’t become luxury items. Access groups are insisting on price points around $40/year for low-income countries, and they’re winning ground. Activists are working with the Global Fund, PEPFAR, and national health ministries to fast-track generics, break monopolies, and push regulatory bodies to move faster. We’re fighting for a future where the newest prevention tools reach the people who need them first, not last.
Linking HIV activism to broader justice movements.
The pandemic exposed how fragile health systems can be, especially for marginalised communities. In response, many HIV activists have broadened their work: pushing for universal healthcare, fighting housing instability, demanding mental health resources, and linking arms with movements for racial justice, women’s rights, and trans liberation. Ending AIDS isn’t separate from ending systemic injustice; these fights are one.
And something is stirring in the movement right now, a kind of renaissance.
New heroes are stepping up: peer educators on motorbikes bringing meds to rural villages; young queer people running online support groups across borders; clinicians refusing to let stigma dictate care; people living with HIV who share their stories to dismantle shame and ignite change. Their work doesn’t always make headlines, but it changes lives every day.
Communities remain the engine of the HIV response. When we’re resourced and respected, we innovate. We build mobile testing units, run WhatsApp peer networks, organise mutual aid, and ensure youth and elders stay connected to care. And when we collaborate with health workers, policymakers, and researchers as equals, not as tokens, entirely new pathways open up. Ones rooted in shared purpose, trust, and equity.
This is what activism looks like now: not quieter, not softer, just more widespread, more intersectional, and more determined than ever.
Remembering Yesterday, Fighting for Tomorrow
The story of HIV/AIDS isn’t finished, but in 2025, we’re writing it with both realism and real, earned hope. We know what it takes to end this epidemic. The science is here. The lessons are here. And those lessons passed down through queer grief, intergenerational memory, and decades of courageous activism remind us that progress happens when we care fiercely, organise collectively, and refuse to let injustice stand unchallenged.
AIDS remembrance matters because it roots us. It brings us back to why our community fought so hard, and why we keep fighting now. When we wear a red ribbon or show up to a vigil, we’re not just honouring loss, we’re recommitting to a future where none of our people are abandoned because of who they are, where they live, or what resources they do or do not have access to.
That ribbon has always meant blood, love, passion, and defiance. It says we will never forget those we lost, and we will never turn our backs on those living with HIV today, especially the people and regions still carrying the heaviest weight of the epidemic.
Commemoration is only half of it. The other half is the promise:
A future where HIV is no longer a public health threat.
A future where the inequalities that shaped this crisis, racism, transphobia, homophobia, colonialism, and criminalisation, are dismantled, not ignored.
A future where care isn’t determined by borders or income.
We’ve already seen what’s possible. From more than 2 million AIDS deaths a year in the 1990s to around 630,000 in 2024, we’ve turned despair into something resembling hope. But hope doesn’t mean the work is done; it means we’re responsible for carrying it forward.
There’s a phrase often heard at AIDS memorials: “We are because they were.”
It’s true.
The rights we have, the medicines that keep us alive, the knowledge we now take for granted, all of it comes from people who fought, marched, loved, organised, and held each other through impossible conditions. Many never got to see the world they were fighting to build.
Remembering them isn’t passive. It’s accountability. Its lineage. It’s love.
As queer people, especially as trans, non-binary, and gender-diverse folks, we know the strength of chosen family. We know how to show up for each other when systems fail. And with our allies beside us, we’ll keep pushing for a world where no one is left behind in HIV prevention or care.
For those we’ve lost, for those living with HIV now, and for the generations that will come after us, we move with purpose. Some experts say 2030 could mark the end of AIDS as a global public health threat. Whether we reach that goal depends on political will, global equity, and our commitment to remembering the past while fighting like hell for the future.
On World AIDS Day 2025, we mourn.
We remember.
We recommit.
And step by step, day by day, heart by heart, we get closer to the moment when AIDS remembrance becomes history, not because we forgot, but because we finally built the world our elders deserved.
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