In 1980, a man in San Francisco showed signs of a weakened immune system and sought medical help. The diagnosis: Kaposi Sarcoma, a rare form of cancer.

A year later, his case was revised. Retroactively, it became the first recorded instance of a new virus in the United States.

By then, it was 1981. The virus had been silently spreading for over a year—not just in the U.S. but also in Canada, Brazil, and the UK. It was rampant.

Forty years later, it still confounds the medical community, infecting millions each year. Despite advances in research and prevention, there is still no cure. No widely available vaccine.

So how did it spread so rapidly in those early years?

At the time, doctors had never seen anything like it. With little to go on, they speculated. And from that speculation, a pattern emerged: those infected were primarily gay men.

The CDC acted on this assumption, officially naming the virus Gay-Related Immune Deficiency (GRID).

The perception: it was confined to a specific community.
The result: anyone outside that community assumed they were immune.

Mainstream media ignored it. Public health measures lagged. While the world moved on, the gay community was left in terror, with only niche publications like The New York Native sounding the alarm.

Then, in 1983, signs of the virus appeared in heterosexual women. Babies in New Jersey were born with unexplained immune deficiencies. It became undeniable: this virus could infect anyone.

By 1991, the death toll hit 100,000. The milestone was barely acknowledged—just a small Associated Press blurb on page 18 of The New York Times. No photos. Below the fold.

The headline: U.S. Reports AIDS Deaths Now Exceed 100,000.

A crisis dismissed. A generation lost.

Some say the media’s reluctance stemmed from uncertainty. Others point to the allegedly homophobic views of The Times editor A.M. “Abe” Rosenthal. Whatever the reason, the damage was done. A precedent was set: AIDS was not front-page news.

This silence buried the crisis in stigma and shame. AIDS became someone else’s problem—a disease of “them.” A disease of gay men. Of drug users. Of promiscuity.

Except it wasn’t.

From the start, HIV could infect anyone. Gay. Straight. Black. White. Young. Old. Famous. Unknown. Nobody was immune.

The world paid attention when public figures started dying. Queen’s Freddie Mercury. Then rapper Eazy-E, who, in his final days, made a statement to his fans:

“I have learned in the last week that this thing is real, and it doesn’t discriminate. It affects everyone.”

And yet, awareness came too late. To date, AIDS has claimed 32 million lives. More than 80 million people have been infected with HIV—many unaware they have it.

The virus still spreads. It still kills. And in some places, like South Africa, the crisis is as severe as ever.

And yet, the stigma remains. The same us vs. them mentality. The same failure to grasp that this was never just a “gay disease.” It was a human one.

Now, decades later, a new virus has emerged. A pandemic.

This time, the scapegoat isn’t gay men—it’s the elderly. The immunocompromised. The ones some consider “acceptable losses.”

Once again, there are naysayers dismissing the threat. Once again, the early response has been clouded by uncertainty, bias, and misinformation.

But there is a difference. This time, the media is watching. The front pages are paying attention.

The question is—will the public listen?