Contracting a Chronic Case of Guilt

I caught the flu a few weeks ago, complete with a 104 degree fever, vomiting, cold symptoms, and light-headedness. It left me helplessly bed-ridden for 5 straight days, and by the end of it, I finally understood the term "cabin fever." I was miserable.

Predictably, news of my temporary illness spread quickly around my little mountain village... Within 24 hours of getting sick, my once peaceful rondaval had been transformed into a gathering place for my Basotho students, friends, neighbors, and church-goers. I received more visitors as I was trying not to vomit into a bucket by my bed, than when I was perfectly healthy and full of energy. My Ntate, previously busy with winter butchering (and thus notably absent from our family compound in the previous weeks), miraculously reappeared to check on me 3-4 times a day. My 'Me' (who lives in a neighboring village) stayed in Ha Selomo for the week, and graciously washed my clothes. My friend, Phepheng, came over to sit with me for several hours. The village kids came by to draw me water and fetch oranges from the shopong. The out-pouring of love I received was absolutely amazing, and in retrospect, it made me realize how lucky I am to be so loved by my community. At the time, however, I didn't exactly see it that way.

While all the help and concern I received was endearing, at the time all I really wanted was to retreat into solitude, darkness, and silence to sleep away my misery ALONE. As a sick American 8000 miles from home, the constant ko-koing at my door was absolutely horrifying. When one of my favorite students, showed up at my door to visit me for the second day in a row, I didn't feel grateful. I felt angry.

"Lumela, ausi! I didn't think I'd see you again today. Shouldn't you be at church?"

Translation: What in the world are you doing here? AGAIN.

"As you can see, I'm really not feeling very well still."

Translation: The room is spinning, and if you don't leave, I'm going to vomit on your shoes.

."I'm sorry, but I don't think you should come in... I don't want to get you sick."

Translation: I DO NOT want to talk to you. GO AWAY!

"Maybe I can help you with math homework tomorrow instead... Would that be okay?"

Translation: Please, dear God... Don't knock on my door again until I don't feel like killing myself to end my misery.

I turned her away at the door for the second day in a row, knowing full well that she would be back again tomorrow. And as I dragged myself back to bed, fighting waves of nausea, I only felt one thing: Guilt.

While I may have been fighting off a bad case of the flu, I also have a much more serious, untreatable, and chronic condition, otherwise known as "Peace Corps Guilt." I contracted it the moment I walked into 'Me' Malehlohonolo's house to eat dinner with my new host family on my very first night in Lesotho: She served me a meager dinner of beans and papa (boiled maize meal)... I sat on the only chair in the house, and she and my host siblings shared a single bowl of papa with their hands on the dirty, fly-ridden floor of their sweltering, tin-roofed house. The guilt has stayed with me nearly every day since... And contrary to what you're probably thinking, it's not a guilt of "wealth" or "affluence." Yes, I am a "rich, white, American" who owns a personal laptop when most people in my village have never even seen a computer. But that guilt, for me, is unavoidable and fades with time. I can't help that I was born rich, and it's my hope that I'm using my wealth, as much as possible, to the advantage of the Basotho people. The more penetrating and lasting guilt I experience from living here has to do with my time, energy, and gifts.

I am a Peace Corps Volunteer. The US Government pays my salary, and I am here at the invitation of the Lesotho Government. My being here means another person cannot be. My being here is only possible because of hard-working American tax-payers. My being here means my impoverished school has to pay my rent, and my host family has to provide a private latrine and other amenities for me. My being here means my parent's didn't get to have me home at Christmas, my brother didn't have his sister at his college graduation, my little sister won't get my help when she moves into her first college dorm in August, and my best friend won't have me at her wedding in November. My being here is a sacrifice for others. So my end of the bargain is to try to accomplish as much as possible during the next 2 years to help better the community of Ha Selomo... I want to make the sacrifices of others worth it. So I teach Math, English, Science, and Life Skills. I help kids with homework, tell my neighbors about American culture, and engage the village kids in fun activities to help them practice everything from reading to multiplication tables. I spend weekends at youth conferences leading HIV/AIDS workshops. I teach winter classes, and lead tutoring session for senior students. I help lead the "Young Women's Group," English Club, and Math and Science Club at my school.

And every single moment that I take for myself, is a moment that I'm not giving to my kids. Like I said... Guilt.

When I'm tired and a student ko-ko's at my door for help with homework, I sometimes ask them to come back tomorrow. Then I feel guilty. People in village assault me with questions after I've been disappointed by not being able to talk on the phone with my mom, and I just want to tell everyone to "Leave. Me. Alone." Then I feel guilty. My Ntate ko-ko's at my door at 5am to ask for a match, and I am grumpy, tired, half-asleep, and angry. Then I feel guilty. My host mother shows up with a starving, filthy kitten that gets in my house and eats all MY cat's foods, and I have to run around trying to beat it out with a broom. Then I feel guilty. I go out of town to visit my friends for a weekend, and later find out that the teacher on duty didn't show up for "Saturday Study" at the school. Then I feel guilty. Bo-ntate play football next to my house every Sunday, stare endlessly, and shout obnoxious comments at me as I'm washing my clothes, and I want to scream "Do you REALLY have to intrude on my ONLY safe space in this ENTIRE country?!" Then I feel guilty. Kids ko-ko, and ko-ko, and ko-ko at my door, at all hours of the day on all days of the week, and I get frustrated, angry, and upset. Then I feel guilty. I want to lay around in my pajamas on Saturday morning reading and drinking coffee, but when I do my Ntate makes unending comments about how I sleep too much. It makes me furious. But then I feel guilty. My colleagues make japes about how young I am in the same breath as telling me I need to marry so I'll have a man to take care of me, and I want to tell them I have a Master's Degree, have lived in 3 different countries by myself since I graduated University, have owned a car, have paid taxes, and most recently moved myself 8000 miles away from my family ON MY OWN. Then I feel guilty.

I often feel like my weaknesses and faults here, come at the expense of my students and the reputation of Americans. So I bite my tongue, do my best to give 110% all the time, and when I fall short of perfection... I succumb to feeling guilty. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we tell ourselves that "you can only do what you can do," that "we're doing the best we can with what we have," that "we have to take care of ourselves, before we can take care of others," but all these attempts at comfort are just salves for a chronic condition that has no cure...

I've contracted a chronic case of guilt.

With Love from Lesotho... -Mary E.