Being diagnosed with MPox can feel like a death sentence—not only because there’s no known cure, but because the illness comes with a crueler infection: shame. The virus is transmitted through close physical contact, often during the most intimate human interactions. Although public health experts have warned against using the outbreak to fuel stigma, the burden has fallen hardest on queer communities, reviving a familiar and dangerous script where illness becomes a tool for hate. 

MPox, or Monkeypox, is a disease that causes painful rashes, lesions, fever, and enlarged lymph nodes. It is transmitted through close contact, including saliva, intimacy, and sexual activity. The majority of cases have been transmitted sexually, with a large proportion of infected individuals from the LGBTQ+ community—specifically gay men. 

In the Philippines, the first known case of MPox was recorded in 2022: a 31-year-old homosexual male who eventually recovered. On August 21, 2024, another case was reported in Quezon City. According to Mayor Joy Belmonte, the patient was a 33-year-old man who had sexual encounters in an illegal spa popular with the gay community.

With these details in mind, MPox is now being weaponized as a rhetoric against the gay community—further stigmatizing the disease, much like how the HIV epidemic was used against them in the 1980s. 

Living with MPox is already harsh, but when paired with continuous attacks and renewed fear-mongering towards minorities, treating the disease becomes more than a public health issue—it now becomes a moral obligation.

The history of MPox

MPox didn’t begin in humans. It was first identified in monkeys inside a laboratory in Copenhagen in 1958. Scientists studying polio vaccines noticed lesions spreading across the bodies of Asian monkeys imported from Singapore. The sores dotted their limbs, tails, and faces, but the animals weren’t gravely ill. Within two weeks, the lesions scabbed over and disappeared. Only six out of 32 monkeys were infected, and the outbreak passed quietly, almost forgettably. 

Fast-forward to 1970, when the first human case of MPox was reported in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Research shows that the virus became endemic in the continent of Africa during the 1980s, resulting in thousands of infections and multiple deaths. 

In 2003, another outbreak occurred in the U.S., involving prairie dogs imported from Ghana, infecting 40 individuals. From then on, MPox cases became sporadic. Even though infections were still recorded, it wasn’t until 2020 that an uptick in new infections was observed. 

In October 2020, the World Health Organization (WHO) reported 6,200 MPox infections in the Democratic Republic of Congo, prompting the expansion of testing facilities. By May 2022, global cases had climbed to 87,000. The outbreak, which began in the United Kingdom (UK), was officially declared a global health emergency. That same year, the Philippines reported its first case—a 31-year-old man who had traveled abroad, specifically to the UK. He recovered, but the implications were clear: this wasn’t an isolated infection. What began in a lab in 1958 had now become a public health emergency. 

The tainted rainbow

Being diagnosed with MPox is hard enough, but being blamed for it is another. Since the 2022 outbreak, gay men have once again found themselves in the crosshairs of a public crisis that has, almost inevitably, become a cultural battleground. The virus spreads through close physical contact. But what lingers more than the fever is the fear: not just of the disease, but of being seen as the disease. 

A WHO study found that among over 68,000 global infections in which the U.S has the highest recorded cases, and nearly 90% of patients in the same region reported having sex with other men. Instead of sparking targeted care or urgency in treatment, this data became ammunition—fuel for conspiracy, fodder for old slurs, and a digital-age rehashing of a devastating history.

It’s a familiar choreography: medical panic gives way to social paranoia. Fear metastasizes into blame. And before long, the call for science-based solutions is drowned out by the louder, baser noise of bigotry. The parallels to the early days of the HIV crisis are not subtle. Back then, AIDS was initially referred to as GRID—Gay-Related Immunodeficiency. Gay men were denied care, dignity, and visibility. Four decades later, some things feel disturbingly unchanged.

A 2023 study by Dr. Anthony Smith of the Centre for Social Research in Health at the University of New South Wales (UNSW) found that MPox patients—particularly gay men—experienced medical neglect, poor pain management, and, in some cases, outright disgust from healthcare workers. Some reported that nurses refused to touch them. Others were met with questions laced with judgment, not care. 

Hospitals are supposedly meant for healing. But for many MPox patients—especially gay men—they’ve become places of fear, silence, and shame. With no definitive treatment and a public stigma that clings like a second skin, patients are left waiting not just for recovery, but for dignity. The fear is familiar. Once again, sickness was met with indifference, and being gay meant being expendable in the eyes of governments and institutions.

Stigma fuels hate, and the LGBTQ+ community continues to live under its shadow. The current MPox outbreak echoes the HIV epidemic of the 1980s, but history also offers light. In 1987, ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) pushed back through protest and visibility, forcing action from governments and healthcare systems. Their efforts led to the first accessible AIDS treatment, AZT, and landmark policy changes that reshaped public health. 

We don’t need to relearn the fight. The blueprint is already there. What we need now is commitment. 

The Commission on Human Rights (CHR) has condemned the rising wave of discrimination, but real progress depends on collective will—from healthcare workers, policymakers, and ordinary citizens. Viruses may not choose their victims, but how we respond reveals who we choose to protect. 

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The MPox outbreak is not just a health concern—it’s a test of equity. As the virus evolves, so must our response. As new variants emerge and the case counts climb, governments must act not only with urgency, but with empathy. Disease does not discriminate, but care often does. No patient should receive less dignity because of who they are or who they love. How we respond now—whether with silence or with solidarity—will reveal whether the promise of healthcare truly extends to all, or only to some.