Three dominant thematic narratives emerged, which broadly spoke to the positioning of trans women as stigmatized others in ciscentric health systems that maintain and reinforce traditional norms of the gender binary. This positioning favours cisgender positions within healthcare while invisibilizing and excluding trans positions. The first theme highlights the denial of trans women’s self-determination reflected in institutional policies and practices that misgender trans women, limiting their access to dignified care. The second speaks to the lack of knowledge about gender-affirming healthcare held by healthcare professionals and healthcare institutions at large and played out through trans-erasure. The third speaks to the barriers to accessible and equitable healthcare faced by trans women compounded by the collusion of gender, race, and class structural dynamics.
Denial of trans women’s self-determination through (Mis)Gendering: “If they respected me, they would have put me in a female ward.”
Uncovered by the participants’ stories is the refusal of their right to access health systems as women, as their self-determined gender. This is demonstrated through the limited accommodations that are made for their needs and positions as trans patients in cisnormative healthcare settings that operate on the assumption that every patient is and should be cisgender. For example, Lerato said: “If you have to go to the clinic, you will be judged. Sometimes you will be judged by the security at the gate for your gender, how you look and stuff. So, you end up not going to the clinic”. Sam shared a similar experience: “Yes, you will feel excluded the moment you enter the gate. They will make funny jokes about your sexuality, which is totally wrong”. In the same way, Laila conveyed a story of being received with a negative attitude by an administrator when reaching out for healthcare: “They told me… it’s going to be very expensive, so I must go to a local clinic… And then the clerk there [at the local clinic], she gave me attitude.” All these stories reflect how the trans women in this study encountered judgment and ridicule for how they looked and expressed their gender. Participants experienced themselves as unwelcomed at multiple levels in healthcare settings which speaks to a stigmatizing culture within these health systems.
The attitudes and perceptions that the staff members had towards the participants appear to be driven by macro-level societal discourses about transness that create powerful barriers to accessing healthcare. For example, Sam highlights how her gender identity needed to be confirmed as soon as she entered the gates of the hospital: “There is security, right? By confirming your identity, they will see that you are a man”. This practice of confirming identity, especially within sex-segregated medical settings, has important and serious consequences for a woman like Sam, whose gender self-identification does not mirror the gender category she was medically and legally accorded at birth. This is a practice that constrains Sam’s opportunity to receive medical care as an already stigmatized member of society. After the confirmation of Sam’s identity upon admission for the treatment of tuberculosis, Sam was allocated to a male medical ward as per her medico-legal sex designation at birth: “I stayed at the hospital for 2 weeks for treatment due to TB, living with males in the same ward… Remember it’s a public hospital. I didn’t even have the power to ask for a single room or a single ward.”
Cisnormativity, the assumption that every person has and should have a gender that assigns with the gender they were assigned at birth (Bauer, 2009), and gender fundamentalism, the view that entrenches gender as a fixed, innate and dichotomous category (Connell, 2012), become the ideological premise of Sam’s experience of being misgendered in the hospital, where she is addressed and treated using language and designations that do not reflect the gender with which she identifies. In a sex-segregated medical system, stringently divided along rigid gender lines, Sam’s allocation to a male ward demonstrates the perpetuation of an enduring custom of assigning gender and imposing identity in a way that denies individual agency and restricts human rights. Sam specifically mentioned that she did not even have the power to voice her wishes, speaking to a position of social subordination she held in relation to cisgender medical power that held the authority to designate gender.
Mpho had a similar experience, where her gender self-identification was disregarded as a psychiatric in-patient: “I was not staying in the female or male’s room. I was staying in between the female rooms and male wards… Oh, it was so painful. I didn’t feel like I was respected much, that my privacy was respected… Because if they respected me, they would have allowed me to go to the female bathroom and put me in a female ward but they didn’t do that.” In sex-segregated systems such as the hospitals that Mpho and Sam found themselves in, they were required to choose between enduring the indignity of accessing services according to their natal gender or gender assigned at birth and foregoing services entirely. Through these narrative accounts, the South African healthcare system is represented as a social structure set up in ways that assume cissexuality, and in so doing negates patients’ rights to self-identify.
Although the majority of experiences in this study highlight misgendering and consequently stigmatization in pathologizing healthcare settings, there were the occasional experiences of inclusion. For example, Mpho described the power of simple experiences, such as being addressed and treated by medical staff in ways that affirmed her identity: “Some people were not [supportive]. They were, like, “Huh? And then? Some people respected my choice, and they respected everything. They respected me, and they started calling me using feminine pronouns, and I really appreciate that because that really helped with my transition”. Phumeza also shared experiences that constituted being addressed and treated by the people around her in ways that affirmed her identity: “I’ve worked for the company and now I am the patient there, however, the treatment is still the same and I am happy that when I go there, I am actually me and I know what to say there.” These experiences, while infrequent, provide a glimpse of what inclusive healthcare may look like.
(Lack of) Knowledge about gender-affirming healthcare: “You encounter certain staff members that have no idea about being trans.”
Participants’ narratives speak to how healthcare professionals and healthcare institutions largely lack knowledge about gender-affirming healthcare. Trans erasure, whereby trans patients' needs are neglected due to the lack of trans-inclusive policies and practices in healthcare structures (Bauer et al., 2009) was evident in these participants’ experiences. This erasure is a powerful consequence of the failure of knowledge systems to respect, safeguard and acknowledge trans identities, rendering these patients invisible within the health system. Sam shared the following experience: “Let me make an example, if you go to a public health facility, you will find there is someone who doesn’t even know about the transition. So, it starts with the health facilities, the public health around Limpopo is very, very cruel… You encounter certain staff members that have no idea about trans. They don’t have any idea about MSM”. Laila shared a similar narrative of reaching out for gender-affirming hormone therapy and finding out that the healthcare staff was not aware of gender medical transitioning as a legitimate medical procedure: “So, I went to the local clinic and then they didn’t have a clue what it [transitioning] was all about. And then the clerk there, she gave me attitude”.
Both Laila and Sam struggled to find trans-inclusive healthcare environment, where medical and support staff demonstrated specific knowledge of trans health issues. These two experiences of the study participants speak to the denial of their existence as trans patients within healthcare systems. This denial has a direct connection to the denial of their healthcare needs. Laila further reports: “They don’t know about it; they don’t keep it [hormone treatment]. They don’t know how to help you start with the process; whom to refer you to, where you go, how to start and whom to help you”. Laila’s and Sam’s engagement with public healthcare suggests that (even though the information may be present) this information may rarely be incorporated into official healthcare protocols and processes, nor integrated into the educational training of healthcare practitioners in South Africa.
Mpho challenges the South African health system’s lack of provision of gender-affirmative surgeries, suggesting that the public health system does not seem to prioritise their needs as trans identities: “They don’t want to perform surgery on us because they are constantly telling us that they are currently performing more urgent surgeries. They are performing for cancer patients and all that. I don’t know why. It’s an excuse not to help us. I see it as an excuse”. Mpho questions the extent to which public healthcare takes seriously the health needs of trans persons. This is a reasonable charge in light of historical cisnormative practices in medicine that have pathologized trans populations (Kara & Grinspan, 2017). This unavailability of resources possibly speaks to the lack of integration of gender affirmative care into mainstream public healthcare. Particularly, it spotlights the participants’ marginalisation in public medical practice.
Lerato contends that the underrepresentation of gender-diverse healthcare practitioners is also key to their social exclusion in medicine: “I mean, if you are a trans, you should be able to see that this is a trans person. If at the clinic we meet trans women, there should be a trans woman who will deal with the health issues… If there was a trans person at the clinic who would accommodate someone like a trans person, you would feel safer because we are the most vulnerable ones”. Lerato urges for increased representation and visibility of trans healthcare providers. The essence of Lerato’s petition is a concern about the incorporation of trans-inclusive practices and protocols in medical settings that make it easier for trans patients like herself to seek care, self-identify, and have their healthcare needs competently met.
The importance and value of Lerato’s plea is reinforced by Phumeza’s positive experience of a trans-inclusive clinic in her community: “Actually, when I go to the clinic, they just talk to me like a woman. They even say to me if I’m not feeling well. They would say to me [that] if I want to go to the toilet, they can they come with me and all those things. So, I actually, just laugh about the whole situation. I’m glad that we have our own choice clinic… I get my hormonal treatment there and any other clinical services. So, if I have flu, your Gonorrhea or let’s say that any STI/STD of some sort, they are able to help me with that.” Lerato’s and Phumeza’s reflections provide examples of how inclusion in healthcare may look and feel for trans women in South Africa. They emphasise the importance of institutionalising healthcare practices that celebrate gender diversity of healthcare providers that are educated on trans health, administration staff that is informed about how to communicate appropriately with trans patients, and medical infrastructures that are organised in such a way that trans patients are not imposed gender assignments that do not mirror who they are.
iii) Access to transgender-specific healthcare services – race/class/gender intersection: “I wanted to start with my hormone therapy but then I couldn’t because there was the issue of money.”
Participants in the study are not only navigating health systems as women. They also happen to be black and socioeconomically positioned as poor, navigating a post-apartheid healthcare context pervaded with historical racial, class, and gender inequalities. These narratives highlight how primary public medical institutions do not have sufficient resources to provide gender-affirmative care for trans patients. Laila speaks of the inaccessibility of hormonal replacement therapy due to the severe resource limitation of state-funded public clinics: “The only thing is that the resources on this side. It is like we do not have resources. You will go to the clinic and you will hear that they don’t have enough estrogen. It’s not easy at all because sometimes you might have to go and buy yourself with your own money when there are no resources. There are even clinics in the Northern Cape that don’t even keep them in their clinic”.
Due to this lack of resources, the desperation to medically transition and self-actualise pushes women like Lerato to explore alternatives, which are often unsafe. Lerato obtained gender-affirmative treatment through illegal trade without medical supervision: “For a trans woman like me, it’s a lot of needs because I have to go for hormone pills. And I am taking them from the black market because it’s very expensive to consult the doctor and that… So, in Limpopo, you would go for birth control pills at the [public] clinic. And because I have a lot of friends who are [cisgender] girls, they would give me Triphasil pills and they help you develop some boobs. But those ones I was on them, there were a lot of complications. The last time I was on them, my male part wasn’t working properly and I had some terrible cramps. I had to drop them then this other friend said I should go for hormone pills”.
Lerato’s use of professionally unapproved medication led to frightful health complications, which included cramps and the malfunctioning of her penis. Lerato, thus, addresses her inaccessibility to professional and safe healthcare as manifestly driven by the unavailability of resourced public healthcare facilities and the unreliability of public benefit organisations that provide healthcare services often for only a short term: “It’s very difficult for us. We are on a low scale, a very bad scale… You would find that certain organisations would come and provide lubricants and stuff like that. So, after 6 months that organisation is no longer there, and contracts are terminated because there is no longer funding or something like that. So, I would have to go back to my normal… It’s very tiring because we no longer trust anything. So, that’s why I’m saying we’re on a low scale. You go and consult for a few months but after that, you don’t have money so you see it’s a long process”.
Participant narratives highlight experiences of being unable to afford the gender-affirming medical care they needed. The industrialised private medical sector in South Africa is seen in these examples to construct healthcare practitioners as healthcare providers while patients are constructed as consumers. Lerato’s and Sam’s narratives capture the process of seeking medical care as an economic procedure that requires financial capital they often do not have. Lerato explains: “You go and consult for a few months but after that, you don’t have money. So, you see, it’s a long process”. Sam shares similar experiences: “I only worked for only 2 years and 6 months and my contract has ended due to COVID. So I was home, I couldn’t even go for laser therapy, I couldn’t even go, the moment I became broke, I became broke. I wanted to start as soon as possible with my hormone therapy but then I couldn’t because there was the issue of money”. Due to this commodification of healthcare, economically vulnerable trans women are excluded from meeting their healthcare needs.
To the problem of racialised and classed healthcare inaccessibility, trans women like Lerato and Sam, consequently, often find themselves having to travel long distances to access services in the few public hospitals in the country where the government has instituted gender affirmative care. Sam finds that she has to travel across provinces to access gender-affirming care: “You need to go to the Gauteng Province; you need to go to Cape Town. The hormones are very insufficient. You need to go to other provinces to get medical resources”. Space, as a legacy of apartheid segregation, in the narratives of the participants is mirrored as reflecting and reinforcing socioeconomic inequality. Lerato, who lives in rural Limpopo, has to travel to Johannesburg (a journey of almost 400km) to access gender affirmative care: “There is no doctor in Limpopo, you have to go to Wits. I had to go to Baragwanath Hospital and I was put on a waiting list till today… Yes, for the consultation, for the psychologist, everything”.
The economic vulnerability of women like Lerato, who reside in rural communities situated at the socio-geographical and economic margins of society, makes their reach to medical institutions challenging due to the travel costs involved. Due to her limited financial capabilities, Phumeza highlights that she has needed to prioritise her basic necessities, which sometimes comes down to a choice between food and transport costs for healthcare services: “Sometimes I struggle to go to the clinic because I only have one source of income and I have to make sure that it lasts me let me say probably the whole month because I have to buy food, toiletries and everything you know”.