資料來源：邁克爾·塞加洛夫 / 2022 年 6 月 12 日星期日 12.00 英國夏令時間

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「我從未將自己視為激進主義者」：奧利弗·布朗中尉指揮官的維權運動工作幫助改變了英國的軍事政策。

 

攝影：Alex Lake/The Observer

當海軍軍官奧利弗·布朗發現愛滋病毒診斷是在武裝部隊服役上的障礙時，他知道他手頭有一場戰鬥……

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奧利弗·布朗中尉從頭到腳穿著深藍色的海軍制服，看起來一點也不像典型的愛滋病毒活動家。我們在朴茨茅斯 HM 海軍基地的指揮官辦公室會面。去年年底，布朗的維權活動導致英國軍事政策發生重大變化。多虧了他，那些在軍隊中歧視愛滋病毒感染者的過時規則即將被廢除。

透過窗戶可以看到兩艘巨大的航空母艦，感覺與抗議、直接行動和 LGBTQ+ 激進主義相距甚遠，長期以來，這些活動一直是改善和解決被診斷為陽性者污名的鬥爭前線。不難想像，其中一些活動家驚訝地發現他們的隊伍中有一名海軍軍官。

「我從來沒有把自己視為一個激進主義者」，布朗說，「因為不論我在哪裡？我是誰？或我做些什麼？只不過是穿著制服讓我可以與社會中的一部分人交談，而他們可能自 1980 年代以來就沒有讀過任何有關 HIV 的文章，因此這是一場至關重要的對話」。

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19 歲時，布朗在學院畢業後直接參軍。他在漢普郡的海靈島長大，童年是在海軍朴茨茅斯總部的庇蔭下度過的。他在青春期一直是一名見習員，所以登記從軍似乎是顯而易見的下一步。一年來，他在達特茅斯的不列顛皇家海軍學院接受了基本的軍官培訓。完成後，他加入了一艘獵雷船。 「這些艦艇被視為海軍皇冠上的明珠」，他解釋說，顯然很自豪。 「我從朴茨茅斯開始，然後在蘇格蘭，然後飛往巴林」。很快，他就獲得了資格，允許他從船橋上駕駛一艘海軍艦艇。幾次部署後，他指揮著他自己的巡邏艇，總部設在英國各地；接下來是在海軍高級指揮部工作的機會。

「我成為了第二海務大臣的中尉旗官」，布朗說。「這就像擔任海軍副首席執行官和人力資源總監的執行助理一樣」。起初，布朗駐紮在朴茨茅斯的海軍司令部。當他的老闆被拍肩膀因而在倫敦升職時，布朗也搬遷了。「對我來說這就是完全改變故事的地方」。

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2019 年 10 月的一個下午，布朗從他的巴特西基地出發，在倫敦短暫騎行，去他老闆位於南肯辛頓的家中收集一些文件。「就在我家的拐角處，一個塑料瓶卡在了我自行車輪胎的輻條上，卡住了我的前輪」，布朗說。「我失去了控制，最後撞到了一堵磚牆上，然後——仍然依附在自行車上——從人行道滑過路的另一邊」。值得慶幸的是，布朗說，這輛自行車的下場比他糟糕得多。  

「我的一根手指被撕碎了」，他回憶道，「所以我去了切爾西和威斯敏斯特醫院，以為我會在幾個小時內出院」。但他的醫生開始擔心有更嚴重的事情在起作用。 「起初」，他說，「他們認為這可能是內出血」。在進行X光、驗血和電腦斷層掃描後。令人震驚的是，測試顯示他的淋巴結腫大。

「醫生們」，布朗說，「他們擔心他們發現了癌症的早期階段。我只有 29 歲」。軍事訓練開始了。他努力保持冷靜和鎮定。兩天后——萬聖節——布朗回到了醫院的諮詢室。「那是我第一次聽到有人說愛滋病」。

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布朗不知道，這家醫院是選擇性退出 HIV 檢測計畫（註1）其中的一家。「如果不是因為那個」，他說，「這要嘛是偶然，要嘛是巧合，要嘛是命運，我今天可能還不知道。我從一次自行車事故到擔心是癌症，然後在短短幾天內就被爆出我是 HIV陽性的消息」。

  

驕傲地站著：身著禮儀制服的奧利弗·布朗（Oliver Brown），擔任第二海務大臣的中尉旗官。

照片：朱莉·布朗

在困難的環境中專注地進行理性思考，這已經貫穿了布朗的整個職業生涯。「我在第 28 條（註2）還存在的情況下完成了學業」，他解釋道。「從來沒有談論過愛滋病毒」。他絞盡腦汁尋找背景——在那個階段，他唯一的參考點是音樂劇《租金》（註3），背景設定在 1980 年代後期的紐約。他開始嘗試回答三個問題：「我的生活會是什麼樣子？我什麼時候會死？還有，我還有工作嗎？」

幾乎立刻，前兩個的答案就出來了。現代治療早已確保，如果及時開始，愛滋病毒帶原者不會對生活質量產生不利影響，更不用說預期壽命了。幾週之內，布朗的體內就會出現無法檢測到的病毒載量，這意味著他無法將其傳播。然而，並沒有醫學專業人士知道這個消息對布朗如此重視的職業生涯意味著什麼。

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直到今天，他都不記得自己在確診後與國防部外的朋友和同事見面的旅程。幾天之內，他就通知了他的家人、密友和直系同事。「我的直屬管理者非常支持我」，布朗說，「但實際上花了幾天時間才真正回答了這個問題：我的職業生涯會是什麼樣子？」。回到朴茨茅斯，海軍醫務人員終於證實了他所擔心的事情：他會在醫學上被降級，使他「在醫學上可部署受到限制」。在他的辦公室工作中，這幾乎沒有實際影響。然而，如果他仍然在一艘船上，他就會被調離——至少是暫時的——被認為不適合履行職責。

「隨著時間的推移」，布朗說，「這個標籤讓我感到虛弱。被稱為『有限部署』讓我覺得當我知道情況並非如此時，我無法完成我的工作」。起初他低著頭，不顧一切地忽略它。一年後，醫生准許他重返海軍艦艇工作。「但每次我走進我的艙房」，布朗回憶道，「我都會坐在椅子上，盯著牆壁，歇斯底里地哭泣。當我有一項需要完成的任務時，我會放下所有的情緒，走出家門」。他在公共場合裝出一副勇敢的面孔，但私下壓力太大了。

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布朗還發現，軍隊並沒有擺脫更廣泛的社會污名和偏見。「我們的幽默在最好的時候是獨一無二的」，他解釋說，「就像其他高壓工作一樣，它是一種應對機制」。但現在，這些笑話對布朗的打擊不同了。「這並不罕見」，他說，「當有人對罹患有任何疾病性質的人說道：『這可能是愛滋病』。」，不斷地循航於在何時以及如何地向不斷變更名冊的同事去披露他的診斷，成為一個深刻的焦慮和羞恥的來源。

「我產生了這種偏執狂」，布朗說「對每一種情況都進行第二次猜測。我被打敗了」。他因抑鬱和焦慮再次被降級，並暫時離職。在支持下，他努力重新振作起來。布朗去特倫斯希金斯信託基金諮詢；這很有啟發性。「在這一點上，我可以反思成千上萬關於 HIV 的統計數據，但這是一種防禦機制。我從來沒有考慮過這讓我感覺如何」。僅在他確診之後兩年，還有將近三十年的恥辱感有待解開。「我發現自己在思考大多數人過去常直覺想到的想法：你骯髒、濫交、魯莽和疏忽。這些標籤經常緊貼在愛滋病毒感染者身上」。

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他鼓起勇氣，研究了軍隊的愛滋病毒政策，決心更好好地了解每個武裝部隊中愛滋病毒感染者的情況。他的發現讓他非常不舒服。「每個人談論愛滋病毒的方式都與現代脫節」，他說。

『我的人生會是怎樣的？我什麼時候會死？我還有工作嗎？』

最引人注目的是軍方全面禁止愛滋病毒感染者加入武裝部隊。以布朗現在對病毒的了解，這是沒有意義的。「如果你訪問國家健康服務(NHS)網站」，他解釋說，「它制定了對英國愛滋病毒感染者的限制。這意味著當你去某些國家旅行的問題，以及完全超出英國政府控制的其他事情。而在國內生活的唯一障礙就是參軍」。對服用暴露前預防 (PrEP) 的人也實施了類似的限制，這種預防性藥物可將性行為感染 HIV 的風險降低約 99%。

對於那些已經在服務並被診斷的人來說，情況稍微複雜一些。但深入研究陸軍、海軍和空軍各自的政策並沒有安撫布朗的擔憂。英國皇家空軍的文件提到了愛滋病毒感染者「認知退化」的可能性；飛行員可能被禁止飛行 12 個月。

與此同時，海軍似乎擔心飛行的身體彈片的可能性，以及類似的 12 個月遠離前線的時間。「我突然意識到，在海軍內部，如果我被燃燒裝置炸毀，他們主要關心的是我身體的一小部分會如何將愛滋病毒傳播給我周圍的人，就好像我是一顆載滿病毒的子彈一樣。但這幾乎是可笑的。當然也不是潛在的傳播方式」。

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布朗和其他像他一樣的人被認為對他們的同事和業務構成風險。實際上，它們並沒有帶來任何危險。在愛滋病毒組織的支持下，他開始挑戰這一點。他在白廳度過的時光意味著他知道敲門的機會，而且對愛滋病毒的了解如此之深，確保他準確地知道該說什麼。「這是一場無情的戰鬥」，布朗說，「沒有太多的知識基礎可以建立，我只是持續地問為什麼」。

與政府平等辦公室、衛生部和 10 號政策小組舉行了會議。布朗遊說所有黨派議院團體的議員、國防部長和軍方高層。幾乎每一次談話都以類似的方式展開：一旦布朗提出了他的案例，以及佐證它的科學，人們普遍認為需要緊急改變一些事情。

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2021 年 12 月 1 日，國防部發布了一份新聞稿：「軍隊做出了重大改變，以消除愛滋病毒成為服役的障礙」。其中承諾確保不會再將任何人因愛滋病毒陽性而被排除在參軍的選擇之外。現在亦歡迎等候參加 PrEP 的人；感染愛滋病毒的在職人員可以被認為是完全適合的。消息傳來時，布朗正在一輛計程車裡。「當我接到那個電話告訴我這是官方的，總理會在推特上宣布這一消息時」，他說，「這是我第一次真正對自己是愛滋病毒感染者這一事實感到平靜。我從沒想過它會發生，更不用說這麼快了」。

今天，布朗的大腳趾上有一條紅絲帶紋身。「當我情緒低落時」，他說，「我會和我的兄弟聊了聊」。 『愛滋病毒對你意味著什麼？』，他問道。好吧，我想，這並不比我的大腳趾重要。是的，它是我的一部分，不過也無所謂了」。起初，他會經常看這個紋身。最近，布朗開始忘記它的存在。

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註1：opt-out，亦即選擇退出或選擇不參與，在此指當事人可表明並選擇不接受HIV檢測，但若未明確表明不接受檢測，則醫院常規上會進行檢測。

註2：第 28 條是英國一系列禁止地方當局「宣傳同性戀」法律的立法名稱。由瑪格麗特·柴契爾 (Margaret Thatcher) 的保守黨政府推出，於 1988 年至 2000 年在蘇格蘭生效，從 1988 年至 2003 年在英格蘭和威爾斯生效。它導致許多組織，如女同性戀、男同性戀、雙性戀和跨性別學生支持團體，被關閉或限制他們的活動或自我審查。該法以 1988 年《地方政府法》第 28 條命名，規定地方當局「不得故意宣傳同性戀或發布旨在宣傳同性戀的材料」或「在任何維持的學校中宣傳可接受同性戀作為虛擬的家庭關係」。它分別於 2000 年 6 月 21 日在蘇格蘭被 2000 年公共生活道德標準等法案予以廢除，並於 2003 年 11 月 18 日在英格蘭和威爾斯被第 122 條法案廢除。

註3：Rent 是一部搖滾音樂劇，由喬納森·拉爾森 (Jonathan Larson)創作的音樂、歌詞和書籍大致改編自賈科莫·普契尼 (Giacomo Puccini) 1896 年的歌劇《波希米亞人》(La Bohème)。它講述了一群貧困的年輕藝術家在愛滋病毒/愛滋病的陰影下，在波西米亞字母城蓬勃發展的日子裡，在曼哈頓下城東村努力生存和創造生活的故事。

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sailor who turned the tide on HIV in the military

Michael Segalov / Sun 12 Jun 2022 12.00 BST

 

 

‘I’ve never seen myself as an activist’: Lieutenant Commander Oliver Brown’s campaigning work has helped bring about changes in British military policy. Photograph: Alex Lake/The Observer

When naval officer Oliver Brown found that an HIV diagnosis was a barrier to serving in the armed forces, he knew he had a battle on his hands…

Dressed from head to toe in his dark blue naval uniform, Lieutenant Commander Oliver Brown doesn’t look anything like an archetypal HIV activist. We’re meeting by the commander’s offices at HM Naval Base, Portsmouth. Late last year, Brown’s campaigning efforts led to the announcement of a major sea-change in British military policy. It’s thanks to him that outdated rules which see HIV+ people discriminated against within the military are imminently due to be scrapped.

With two vast aircraft carriers visible through a window, it feels a long way from the protests, direct actions and LGBTQ+ activism which have for a long time been the frontline of the fight to improve the lives of – and tackle stigma against – people living with the diagnosis. It’s not hard to imagine some of those campaigners being surprised to find a naval warfare officer among their ranks.

“I’ve never seen myself as an activist,” Brown says, “because of where I am, who I am and what I do. But being in uniform lets me speak to a section of society who likely haven’t read anything about HIV since the 1980s. That’s a vital conversation to be had.”

Aged 19, Brown joined the military straight out of college. Growing up on Hayling Island, Hampshire, he spent his childhood in the shadow of the navy’s Portsmouth HQ. He’d been a cadet through adolescence so signing up seemed the obvious next step. For a year, he undertook his basic officer training at the Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth. Upon completion, he joined a mine-hunting ship. “These ships are seen as the jewel in the navy’s crown,” he explains, clearly proud. “‘I started out here in Portsmouth, then in Scotland, before flying out to Bahrain.” Soon, he’d qualified, allowing him to drive a naval ship from the bridge. A couple of deployments later, he was commanding his own patrol boat based across the UK. Next came the opportunity to work among naval high command.

“I became the Flag Lieutenant to the Second Sea Lord,” Brown says. “That’s like being an executive assistant to the deputy CEO and HR director of the navy.” At first, Brown was based at Navy Command in Portsmouth. When his boss got tapped on the shoulder for a promotion in London, Brown relocated, too. “That’s where the story completely changes for me.”

On an afternoon in October 2019, Brown set off from his Battersea pad for a short cycle through London, to collect some documents from his boss’s South Kensington home. “Just around the corner from my place, a plastic bottle got stuck in the spoke of my bicycle’s tyre and jammed my front wheel,” Brown says. “I lost control, ended up smashing into a brick wall and then – still attached to the bike – slid the other way across the pavement.” Thankfully, Brown says, the bike came off far worse than he did.

“One of my fingers had been shredded,” he recalls, “so I headed to Chelsea and Westminster hospital assuming I’d be out within a couple of hours.” But his doctors became concerned there was something more serious at play. “At first,” he says, “they thought it might be internal bleeding.” There were X-rays, blood tests and CT scans. Alarmingly, tests showed his lymph nodes were enlarged.

“The doctors,” Brown says, “were concerned they’d identified the early stages of cancer. I was only 29.” Military training kicked in. He tried to stay calm and collected. Two days later – Halloween – Brown was back in a hospital consulting room. “That was the first time I heard someone say HIV.”

Unbeknown to Brown, this hospital was part of an opt-out HIV testing scheme. “If it wasn’t for that,” he says, “which was either chance, coincidence or fate, I still may not know today. I went from a bike accident to concerns of cancer to then having the news broken that I was HIV+ all in just a couple of days.”

 

Standing proud: Oliver Brown in ceremonial uniform, as Flag Lieutenant to the Second Sea  Lord. Photograph: Courtesy Julie Brown

Focusing on thinking rationally in difficult circumstances had been drilled into Brown for his entire career. “I went through school while Section 28 was still in place,” he explains. “HIV was never talked about.” He racked his brain for context – at that stage, his only reference point was the musical Rent, set in late-1980s New York. He set about trying to answer three questions: “What’s my life going to be like? When will I die? And, do I still have a job?”

Almost immediately, answers for the first two were forthcoming. Modern treatment has ensured that, when started in time, living with HIV need have no detrimental effect on quality of life, let alone life expectancy. Within weeks, Brown would have an undetectable viral load in his body meaning he couldn’t pass it on. No medical professional, however, knew what the news might mean for the career Brown valued so much.

To this day, he doesn’t remember the journey he made after his diagnosis to meet a friend and colleague outside the Ministry of Defence. Within a few days, he’d informed his family, close friends and immediate colleagues. “My direct line manager couldn’t have been more supportive,” Brown says, “but it took a few days to actually get an answer to the question: what would my career look like?” Back in Portsmouth, naval medics finally confirmed what he feared: he’d be medically downgraded, making him “medically limited deployable”. In his office job, that had little practical consequence. Had he still been based on a ship, however, he’d have been removed – temporarily at least – deemed unfit to undertake his duties.

“Over time,” Brown says, “this label made me feel debilitated. Being called ‘limited deployable’ made me feel like I wasn’t able to do my job when I knew that wasn’t the case.” At first he kept his head down, desperate to ignore it. A year later, medics cleared him to return to work on a navy ship. “But every time I walked into my cabin,” Brown remembers, “I would sit on the chair, staring at the wall, crying my eyes out in hysterical distress. When I had a task that needed completing, I’d shut down all emotion and walk out the door.” He put on a brave face in public, but privately the pressure was just too much.

Brown also found that the military wasn’t free of broader societal stigma and prejudice. “Our humour is unique at the best of times,” he explains, “much like other high-pressure jobs, it is a coping mechanism.” But now, these jokes hit Brown differently. “It wasn’t unusual,” he says, “for someone with any nature of illness to be told: ‘It could be Aids.’” Navigating when and how to disclose his diagnosis to an ever-changing roster of colleagues became a deep source of anxiety and shame.

“I developed this paranoia,” Brown says, “second guessing every situation. I was broken.” He was downgraded again with depression and anxiety, and signed off work temporarily. With support, he worked hard to build himself back up again. Brown went to counselling with the Terrence Higgins Trust; it was revelatory. “At this point I could regurgitate thousands of statistics about HIV, but it was a defence mechanism. I’d never considered how it made me feel.” Only two years into his diagnosis, there was close to three decades of stigma still to unpack. “I found myself thinking the thoughts most people used to jump to: you’re dirty, promiscuous, reckless and negligent. Those labels are routinely slapped on to people with HIV.”

Emboldened, he looked to the military’s policies on HIV, determined to understand better the situation for people living with HIV across each of the armed forces. What he discovered was deeply uncomfortable. “The way each talked about HIV was out of touch with the modern day,” he says.

‘What’s my life going to be like? When will I die? Do I still have a job?’

Most striking was the military’s blanket ban on HIV+ people joining the armed forces. With what Brown now knew about the virus, this made no sense. “If you went on to the NHS website,” he explains, “it set out the restrictions on people living with HIV in the UK. It meant problems travelling to certain countries, and other things totally beyond the control of the British government. The only barrier to life domestically was joining the armed forces.” A similar prohibition was in place for people taking pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP), preventive medication which reduces the risk of getting HIV from sex by about 99%.

For those already serving upon diagnosis, it was a slightly more complex picture. But diving deeper into the army, navy and air force’s respective policies did little to placate Brown’s concern. The RAF’s document referenced the prospect of “cognitive degradation” of those living with HIV; pilots could be barred from flying for 12 months.

The navy, meanwhile, seemed concerned with the prospect of flying body shrapnel, alongside a similar 12-month period away from the frontline. “It dawned on me that within the navy, if I was blown up by an incendiary device, their principal concern was how a small part of my body might transmit HIV to those around me as if I was a virus-laden bullet. But this was almost laughable; certainly not a potential method of transmission.”

Brown, and others like him, were deemed to be a risk to their colleagues and operations. In reality, they presented no danger. With the support of HIV organisations, he set about challenging this. His time spent in Whitehall meant he knew the doors to knock on and being so well informed about HIV ensured he knew precisely what to say. “It was a relentless battle,” Brown says, “there wasn’t a lot of knowledge base to build from. I just continued to ask why.”

There were meetings with the Government Equalities Office, the Department for Health, and the Number 10 policy team. Brown lobbied MPs from the All Party Parliamentary Group, defence ministers and military top brass. Almost every conversation unfolded in a similar fashion: once Brown had set out his case, and the science which backed it, there was universal agreement that something needed to urgently change.

On 1 December 2021, the Ministry of Defence put out a press release: “Armed Forces make major changes to end HIV being a barrier to service.” In it was a commitment to ensuring being HIV+ would no longer exclude anyone from the option to join the military. Candidates taking PrEP could now be welcomed; serving personnel with HIV could be recognised as fully fit. Brown was in a taxi when the news came. “When I got that call telling me it was official and that the prime minister would tweet the announcement,” he says, “it was the first time I was truly at peace with the fact I was someone living with HIV. I never thought it would happen, let alone so quickly.”

Today, Brown has a tattoo of a red ribbon on his big toe. “When I was feeling low,” he says, “I had a conversation with my brother. ‘What does HIV mean to you?’ he asked. Well, I thought, it’s no more important than my big toe. A part of me, yes. But it doesn’t matter too much.” At first, he’d look at this tattoo fairly regularly. More recently, Brown has started to forget that it’s even there.