The Solidarity of Women

I was travelling to Maseru this past weekend on a public khombi (taxi). It's a long, occasionally arduous, journey that takes me across the breadth of northern Lesotho, through multiple camptowns and districts.

A few miles outside the camptown, Botha-Bothe, the taxi driver swerved to the side of the road. As the door rolled open for the waiting, road-side passengers, I saw a young woman waiting to climb on. She was wrapped in a traditional kobo (blanket), that held a peacefully sleeping infant snug against her back. On her hip she masterfully balanced a squirming little boy. The ground at her feet was covered with a small pile of mis-matched luggage, an immediate give-away that, like me, she was making a cross country trip.

As the other passengers found seats near the back of the noisy and overcrowded taxi, I watched her eyes dart towards the front seat, where I sat alone. I saw the momentary hesitancy, as she struggled to decide how to juggle her load. Then her eyes briefly met mine. It was a single moment. An unspoken understanding. A dance repeated by Basotho women, day-after-day on dusty-road-after-dusty-road, across Lesotho... Without hesitating, I reached out to take the sleeping baby she offered me.

In America, having a complete stranger reach for your child, without a single word of introduction would be untenable. In Lesotho, it's expected. Desired. Needed. Women help women. Mothers support mothers. For Basotho women, mothering is an act of an entire community. Anyone's child is everyone's child. Women frequently feed and care for children that are not their own, in such a way that village friends are often raised with the closeness of siblings. So after more than a year and a half living in Lesotho, this dance has become second nature to me. It's an unspoken understanding that, if my lap is empty of other luggage, a child or infant is welcomed to it.

After some logistical rearranging, we finally settled in side-by-side, sharing the small space with two children and an overwhelming pile of luggage. In my arms, I held a large, yet deceptively light bundle, with a sleeping baby girl nestled deep inside. 'Me attempted to fruitlessly settle the squirming and active toddler.

"U ea kae, 'Me?" (Where are you going, mother?), I asked.
"Maseru," she smiled wearily. 
"Le na," (And me) I echoed quietly, in agreement. "U lula Maseru?" (You live in Maseru?)

"Che... Re chaketse lelapa leso." (No... We're visiting my family.) 

And there we were... Two women. Bound in solidarity to a single mission.

About an hour into the trip, the baby in my lap awoke. Chubby, little fingers reached out of the nest of blankets to explore the foreign texture of my dangling curls and bright earrings. The  heavy winter blanket left pools of sweat on my arms and legs, that slowly soaked through my clothes, making them stick to me uncomfortably. As the mountains of Lesotho flew by at a distance, I couldn't help but marvel at how different child-rearing practices could be between two cultures. I am certain I have photographic evidence, tucked away in some secret box in the top of a closet, that I spent most of my infancy running around defiantly without clothes. Yet Basotho religiously swaddle their infants in mountains of blankets, even in the heat of summer. A practice which makes me certain that the childhood risk of suffocation far outweighs that of catching a trifling cold.

After a while, the interest in my foreign hair and clothing was not enough to outweigh the needs of an empty stomach. 'Me and I slowly shuffled loads... The hungry, crying infant to her; the now moderately pacified little boy to me. At the sight of his sister nursing, however, my new friend started to stir restlessly. I dug into the bottom of my bag, searching for a misplaced banana I'd bought at a roadside fruit stand a few hours back. In true childlike manners, his sticky fingers covered my hands and arm in banana before he nestled in to sleep on my chest. Without a word, only a knowing smile, 'Me dug into a big green bag for a small towel and reached over to wipe a chunk of banana off my forearm. Eventually the satiated infant also slept, and we settled in for several more hours on the sweltering and constantly stopping taxi. I'll never understand how Basotho babies manage to sleep through blaring fame music, honking horns, and the obnoxious calls of the taxi conductor out the window, "Palama! Palama! Ua palama, Ntate?!" (Get on! Get on! You're getting on, Ntate?!)

Several hours later, in the midafternoon heat, we reached the capital. As we pulled into the taxi rank, overflowing with noise and people bustling about, we let the other passengers depart first. 'Me slowly shuffled the sleeping baby onto her back and began to organize and gather bags. I waved over a boy with a wheelbarrow for hire to help load the bags and transfer them to her next taxi. As I finally handed over a drowsy little boy, we smiled and parted ways with a simple, "Tsamaea hantle, 'Me." (Go well, mother) and off we went in opposite directions. 

I walked away sweaty and sore, but with a small smile that stayed with me throughout the day. Perhaps it was the sweetness of the babies that had slept in my lap all afternoon, or maybe it was happiness at the sense of belonging in this unspoken alliance of women. I love that Basotho women openly embrace motherhood as an act of many. They know something that I often worry American mothers have forgotten... Motherhood requires support. It is an experience to be shared, a weight that seems lighter when carried by the hands of many. 'Me could have made it to Maseru without me, but I love that I live in a culture where I and she know that she would never have to... If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else. There is always a helping hand. 

Women help women. Mothers support mothers. 

It's a special thing to experience.... The solidarity of women. 

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E. 

The Value of “Home.”

I’ve been travelling the developing world since I was an undergraduate in college… As such, I’ve been lucky enough to witness poverty and suffering, in many forms. It’s an experience that changes me anew every time. It never gets easier. After each trip abroad, whether to South America or Africa, I’d return home and begin the not-so-easy process of shifting through conflicting emotions about my life and the injustice of the world. Back at home, ensconced in the safety and comfort of the western world, I would find myself in tears as I took a hot shower, or feel wracked by guilt when I had to throw away uneaten food. I’d shuffle through my life, for weeks or months afterwards, wondering why I rolled a winning hand in the great lottery of life.

So when I bought my plane tickets to travel home to visit my family after 16 months of living in Lesotho, I was understandably nervous. My previous trips, only weeks to months in length, had always had an extreme affect on my emotional and psychological states afterwards- But this experience had far surpassed all of those in term of challenges, realizations, joys, failures, and triumphs. Lesotho was, and is, so much more than all those previous experiences put together. Yet I wanted my brief time home to be joyous- full of love and laughter- not wracked with guilt. I had no idea what I would feel like going home again… Or if I ever could “go home” again.

When I stepped off the plane at Dulles International Airport in mid-December, I walked right past my father. I didn’t even recognize him. Several months of retirement has transformed him from stern-faced, buzz-cut-military, to jolly, rotund, and relaxed, with a giant-graying beard. My sister, nearly tackled me from behind in a giant bear hug, that immediately convinced me that, despite being an 18 year old college student now, some things never change. My mother wrapped me in a tearful hug that never seemed to end- A moment I’d imagined again and again on my loneliest nights in the Maluti Mountains. “You look so well! You look SO well!” I heard her whisper repeatedly under her breath, a half-prayer and half-praise. My brother’s face lit up in a laughing, ear-to-ear smile, as he proudly showed me his new car: his first step into adulthood after graduating from college the previous May. And then there was Casey… Our comical, and slightly chubby, yellow lab had joined my entire family for the four-hour car-trip up to the airport in DC. She valiantly competed with my siblings for who was the happiest to see me.

On the way home, we stopped at a Chick-Fil-A to grab a late 10pm, mid-trip snack. As we squished all five of us into the red plastic booth, that was probably meant for a much smaller family than our large, boistrous bunch, the joy was palpable. I felt complete again… Perhaps for the first time in 16 months. As we sat there, all-smiles, tripping over each other for control of the conversation, I knew the feeling of completion was mutual. At that Chick-Fil-A, somewhere on the interstate between Fredricksburg and Richmond, I finally felt it again… Home.

The next 3 weeks were a chaotic, joyful, lazy, beautiful, and loud amalgamate of family visits, Christmas parties, long walks through the country, Christmas caroling, crackling wood fires, too much good food, afternoons spent curled up in pajamas watching movies with my siblings, all-to-brief visits with friends, and late night talks with my mom over puzzles. It was exactly what it should have been. It was home.

I was simply happy. I felt myself relax in a way that I realized, perhaps I hadn’t in my entire time living in Lesotho. I wasn’t self-conscious. I reveled in the anonimity of walking around a town where people didn’t stare, point, or interrogate me out of curiosity. I relaxed in the comfort of social interactions I understood, conversations I could have without frantically translating between languages in my head, or situations where I knew how to behave. It was liberating.

On Christmas morning, my family and I sat around on the big, fluffy-red couches in my parent’s living room, under the spectacle of our sparkling Christmas tree, the floor strewn with half opened gifts and piles of wrapping paper… And I found myself thinking about my kids in Ha Selomo. And my thoughts were nothing but happy. I found myself smiling, thinking about Mokhoo and Nthatisi tearfully hugging me goodbye as I prepared to leave, waving frantically and chasing the taxi down the dirt-road out of village. I didn’t feel sad for their absence. I didn’t wish they were here. I didn’t pity them, waking up in Ha Selomo. I didn’t feel guilty at my being in America while they were 8000 miles away. Because in that moment I realized…

Everyone deserves home.

Home for me happens to be the Shenandoah Valley, and the smell of homemade macaroni and cheese. It’s a hug from my mom, and the sound of Drayton’s laugh. It’s rolling around on the floor with my dog, until we’re both happily exhausted. It’s a quiet walk to check on the cows with my Dad, and snuggling up in bed with my sister in the early morning, when she’s still half-asleep. It’s Christmas morning: with a tree, presents, and the feel of playing Christmas carols on the piano from my grandmother’s old sheet-music. But for my kids, this wouldn’t feel like home. And I know… I know because I’ve spent the last 16 months living in a place, country, and culture that I love. But Lesotho will never feel like this for me.

And on Christmas, my kids deserve home, too. THEIR home.

They deserve waking up in the rondaval where they were born, to the smell of their mother cooking fresh papa le lebese (maize meal with warm milk) over an open fire. They deserve to celebrate Christmas in a church overflowing with the beautiful sounds of Sesotho hymns, where their grandmother will reach over to hold their hand halfway through the sermon. They deserve to spend the day running about village, in the afternoon heat. Playing with friends they’ve spent their whole lives with. Enjoying an ice-guava from the shopong, or running with wild laughter and abandon, down the hill to take a chilling plunge in the river.

Everyone deserves home.

After my trip back to America this past Christmas, I realize that I don’t have to feel guilty that I enjoy, love, and often miss my home. I need home. Everyone does. Every human being deserves a place in this world where they feel safe, secure, and loved. I don’t pity my children. I don’t pity Basotho. Our homes are simply very different, but I respect that we don’t always get to pick what feels like home. Mine might be in a big, white farmhouse, while theirs is a cozy, dirt-floored rondaval. Yet I would never do them the disrespect of thinking less of theirs, or assuming that they would feel the same way I do were they to magically awake in mine.

Every deserves home. Their OWN home.

With Love from Lesotho… –Mary E.

My Own Little Comedy Routine…

Two years ago, I sat in my one room apartment in Virginia Beach writing my Peace Corps application and longingly imagining what my life in some far corner of the world might be like. I had thousands of images and thoughts… Most of them looked somewhat like the inspiring Peace Corps ads plastered around college campuses across America: They depict a clean, laughing volunteer embracing little South American kids in a big hug, or a loving teacher smiling from a chalkboard at the front of some dilapidated classroom. Some days, albeit very rarely, that is my life. But that is NOT the whole story…

The whole story is that 99.9% of the time, my life in Lesotho is more like a very bad comedy routine that I’m just stumbling through, much to the amusement of my Basotho friends, family, and neighbors.

Like one weekend last year, when I was enjoying a typical lazy Saturday morning in bed, reading a book. As I sipped my daily precious cup of instant coffee, I felt something crunchy on my tongue… I froze, too scared to swallow. I knew EXACTLY what was about to happen. I stuck out my tongue, and picked something off of it: a curled up dead spider. I assume it had fallen from my grass roof, into my coffee. Needless to say, I didn’t drink coffee for a week.

Or how about the late Friday evening, when I returned to village, starving and exhausted after a long week away at a Peace Corps Training. I was rummaging through my food cabinet by candle light when I stumbled upon a half empty container of bacon bits! “Thank you, Mom!” I thought, as I threw them on top of some hastily boiled potatoes for dinner.

The next afternoon, I decided to use the last of my precious bacon bits to make a quick egg salad. I boiled the last 2 eggs in my house, added to chopped onions, and mayonnaise. Finally, I emptied the remaining bacon bits into the bowl. “Noooooooo!!!” I gasped, as I watched giant, fuzzy green chunks of former bacon fall into my perfectly edible egg salad. After a moment, of momentary gagging at the recollection of last nights dinner in the dark, I collected myself. “Come on now. Man up.” I thought, “No point in wasting perfectly good eggs over a little hairy mold!” My fomer-self, sitting on her comfortable couch in Virginia Beach, would have been utterly ashamed to see me now… But onward I plunged. I just plucked as much of those hairy bacon bits out as possible, and then grabbed a spoon and mixed everything else together well. :)

And of course there’s the ever-so-classic story of the night I stepped on a dead rat that my cat had left on the floor of my darkened rondaval… I knew the instant I felt the hairy, squishy warmth, crunch beneath my foot that this was NOT the Peace Corps fantasy I’d imagined when I hit “send” on my online application. I screamed, took two steps in an effort to escape, only to have my OTHER foot land in something chunky and wet… I knew even before I gathered my wits, through tears and gagging in disgust, that one foot was covered in dead rat and the other in cat vomit.

And for Peace Corps Volunteers, the laughable slogan “Shit happens” isn’t a cliche. It’s life. Seriously. Shit REALLY does just happen sometimes. And normally, when it does, you’re stuck on the very back seat of a crammed taxi, between two giant bo-‘Me, on some dirt road to nowhere in the middle of the Maluti Mountains. But to our credit, this is EXACTLY why Peace Corps Volunteers make the BEST travel companions. We have a strict “no judgment” policy because EVERYBODY has been there before.

My own “diarrhea on public transport” moment happened while I was traveling home from a Peace Corps Committee meeting, near the capitol last year. And when, in retrospect, I think about this story and laugh, I just thank God that I was travelling with my PCV friend, Alyssa.

Alyssa and I had gotten about 15 minutes outside of the capitol, with about 30 more minutes to go before we reached our friend, Beth’s village, when the inevitable panic that accompanies stomach pains set in. “Alyssa… I REALLY don’t feel well.” I said, giving her a ‘you know what I mean’ look. “My stomach is killing me. I don’t know if I can make it.” I said, starting to panic. But thank God for Alyssa, and her never-ending sarcasm and unflappable sense of humor. She turned to me in the back seat of that sweating hot, over-stuffed taxi, and looked me straight in the eye, in a completely uncharacteristic, dead serious, moment. “Okay… That’s totally okay. You just say the word and I will stop this WHOLE taxi.” she said with a stern look. “And if you can’t wait, then don’t you even worry about it, girl… It’s okay if you shit your pants. I gotch ya back, woman!” she added, with a laugh.

Despite my distress, I couldn’t help but chuckle at her blatant honesty. It really did make me feel better. But ten minutes later, I knew we’d reached a critical moment… And to Alyssa’s credit, she stayed true to her word. “Alyssa- I’ve got to get off this taxi NOW!” I said urgently. “No problem! I’ve got this!”… “Ummm! EXCUSE ME, bo-Ntate!” she bellowed from the back seat, over the blaring rhythm of famu music and Basotho villagers. “Re hloka ho teoha HONA joale!” (We need to get off RIGHT now!) With little to no fanfare, she forged an awkward, bumbling path out of the taxi- stepping over peoples’ laps, juggling luggage, and muttering “Ke soabile!” (Sorry!) “Phephi, ‘Me” (Sorry, mother!) and “Kea leboha, Ntate” (Thanks, father!) all the way. I just barely made it to a local shop, where a local Indian shopkeeper took pity on me and gave me the key to his latrine. After a painful few minutes, we finally hit the road again, but our trip included two more pits stops before we finally reached Beth’s village. There I spent most of my night ensconced in her latrine, much to the concern of her very worried host mother (who probably thought the lekhooa (white) visitor was going to die on her watch.) By the end of Alyssa’s and my trip, I was miserable and just happy to be home. And Alyssa was a trooper the whole way… “Look, girl… Sometimes shit just happens.” :)

With Love from Lesotho… –Mary E.

Celebrating International Women's Day!

Hopolang introduces our International Women's Day program!

This morning I arrived to school at 6:50am... As I crossed the school compound, dressed in a white polo and cardigan, I caught the excited smiles of my Young Women's Group members- peeking out of dusty windows and rushing across the school grounds to join morning study. Decked out in mismatched whites and creams to raise awareness for violence against women, they came running to meet me at the door of the Science Lab. "We're so very excited, Madam!" "You look so sharp, 'Me Limpho!" "Look at us all looking so smart in our white!" They clamored. Their excitement was infectious.

When Assembly started that morning, I watched my girls, normally shy and scared in front of a crowd, come to the front with a clear swagger of pride and obvious glee. Over the next 20 minutes, they beautifully executed the short poetry program and prayer that we had diligently rehearsed for the past 3 weeks. Hopolang and Nkareng, from Form D, gave a rousing and inspiring introduction to the history of International Women's Day, that had female students in the crowd shouting in laughter, "Yes! Women! We are beautiful!" Afterwards, I watched quiet and timid Mathope deliver a poem entitled "A Woman's Worth" with such emotion it nearly made me cry. Then four of my Form B girls, locked hands in solidarity, as they recited one of my favorite poems- Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou.

In that moment, I watched my girls transform. As if by the flip of a switch, they managed to temporarily internalize and own their strength and beauty. Qualities I knew were there all along, buried somewhere deep beneath teenage insecurities and a culture that demands submission to the opinions, intellect, and physical needs of men. For this one day, they were more than smart, beautiful, and worthy... They believed they were.

In the midst of the program, I turned around to look at my fellow teachers. A knowing, albeit hesitant smile graced the faces of my female colleagues... Funny, amazing, loving, and confident Basotho women who had never once thought of celebrating their own femininity, until I suggested it. And while they looked on, almost as passive observers, I noticed that every single female teacher was wearing white. From head to toe, each signaled a modest, yet profound echo of agreement to the statements my girls were making in front of the entire school.

Then my gaze passed from them to the male teachers... My colleagues. My friends. Not a single one wore white today. And that's when I realized... Much in the same way that my female colleagues had shown their tentative support for International Women's Day in the color of their clothes, my male colleagues had demonstrated their apprehension, and perhaps even slight resistance to it, in their dress as well. They smiled, supported, and applauded, but did not participate. When my fellow Peace Corps Volunteer and friend, Brendan, (who lives in a neighboring village) took the stage to read a poem he'd composed to honor women, I watched momentary shock and confusion grace their faces. I smiled proudly as Brendan, a white man, whom my male colleagues proudly claim as part of "bo-Ntate" (the men), spoke about his belief that men and women are equal. That women should be respected as human beings with rights, intelligence, and strength. The incredible irony, that his 5 minute contribution to the day may have made a more profound impact on my students and faculty, than my WEEKS of behind the scenes work, was not lost on me.

Just as the subtleties of issues of gender inequality are not lost on me... Like this morning, when I arrived at school and greeted one of my colleagues. I watched his eyes, not shyly, rove over my body for an extended second. I endured his comments about how much he likes it when I wear blue jeans, and how good women always look in white. I swallowed with a false smile the burning realization that my wearing white as a statement of my human rights not to be sexually harassed or abused was completely lost on him. For him, my clothes were not making a political statement, but a sexual one.

When I think about these issues, it makes me appreciate how lucky I was to be raised in a family and country where women before me have adamantly defended, sacrificed for, and protected my freedom to vote, attend school, and contribute to the world as an equal partner. I think about how damaging it is to a human being's self-esteem to be raised in a country, culture, or family that views you as lesser, weaker, or needy. It's crippling to the human spirit in a way that eats away at you slowly, and so subtly, that you never fully realize that you're less than you could have been.

And that knowledge makes me appreciate the miracle of what I witnessed my girls do today. It makes me proud to see them take this simultaneously tiny and monumental step towards owning and respecting themselves.

It makes me proud to be a woman.

With Love from Lesotho... -Mary E.