The not so (a)lone anthropologist.

Photographic images, video documentaries, and written ethnographies of anthropological fieldwork often perpetuate the stereotypical image of a lone anthropologist, heroically forging into the brave unknown. S/he hikes up mountains without a guide, suffers lonely nights by candle light, and navigates the social customs and nuances of a foreign people independently. Armed with only a pen and paper, the anthropologist somehow mysteriously masters complex, and often intricately tonal languages, in a matter of months. Never mind that the average person can spend countless years studying high school/college Spanish, only to barely master ordering a taco on a family vacation to Mexico. This is the image of the anthropologist in fieldwork... Yet nothing could be further from the truth. 

In the background of every photo taken at a research site... The silent voice behind every interview transcript in a book, is the anthropologist's research assistant or translator. They are notoriously invisible figures. I have never read an ethnography that mentions them outright. Now, in the midst of my own fieldwork, I find this lack of attention to such a critical figure shocking. The truth is that an anthropologist's assistant is the facilitator of every friendship and key cultural contact; the shadow to their every move. They are simultaneously friend, employee, cook, translator, and travel companion. They prevent a hundred cultural faux pas every day. Translate endlessly, providing access to a world foreign and unknown. 

And I am lucky... I have one of the best. 

When I ventured into Motete at the beginning of December to begin my fieldwork, Ts'episo was by my side for the whole, exhausting ordeal. Now that we are in village she has become indispensable to me and my work. At barely 5' tall, with a beautiful, rounded face, it would be easy to think she's characteristically sweet and docile. But don't let her short stature fool you... She's a firecracker, with the quick-tempered wit and smarts to back it up. I knew we'd be fast friends and good travel/living companions when, while buying food supplies for our trip with her fiancé, Vernon, she matched my sarcasm and dry sense of humor quip for quip. She's endlessly funny, and has this wicked grin that she occasionally pulls out when, as she says, "someone is being naughty!" I now realize that she possesses a critical personality characteristic that I never thought to select for, when hiring an assistant: a robust and enduring sense-of-humor. 

Tsepiso's true talent, however, seems to be knowing when to selectively turn it off and on. When in village, she can defuse awkward greetings and stiff first meetings with the village women with humor, or stand down the Chief seriously, as he sizes us up. Our work is delicate at this stage. We can't run full-force into women's rondavals asking about childbirth practices or HIV testing. Mothers hardly discuss such issues with their own daughters, no less a strange white woman and her feisty companion from the big city. Encouraging women to open up to us requires patience and social nuance- skills that, thus far, Ts'episo has in spades. 

And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the countless other ways, aside from our professional work in the village, that she has eased my work at home. At the end of a long day, sitting around village with bo-Mme or running up and down village photographing a traditional cultural procession, I still have hours of writing ahead of me. My brain is full of images, memories, new vocabulary words and names of remote villages, that need to be committed to paper, sooner rather than later... And that doesn't even include the inevitable exhaustion of navigating a foreign language all day, or the stack of academic literature and books that still sits unread on the make-shift pile of boxes-turned-table by my bed. This is where Ts'episo's presence has proven a true gift. She is an AMAZING cook, and carries the burden of most of our minimal housework, while I run off to a quiet corner to read and write. Her sweet bread (which I successfully cooked myself for the first time a few days ago!) is honestly the most delicious bread I have ever had in my entire life. We currently have the kitchen set up in my room... So as she cooks in the evening, she frequently endures my endless questions. "What did that mean?" "Why did Mme say that?" "Did you catch the look between those men? Was that anything important?" "Tell me what she said again." It's never-ending for her. Long after a simple, seemingly meaningless conversation or interaction is over, I'm still asking her to relive it- repeat it- explain it again. She has a seriously difficult job, and I am incredibly grateful for her enduring it with a smile.

There is one more, absolutely important reason that I now find the absence of the research assistant/translator from most anthropological documentation and analysis untenable... Aside from being critically important to making my fieldwork possible, I am now also acutely aware that use of a translator introduces an additional level of complexity to executing fieldwork AND, understandably, an additional source of potential error in the results. In documenting what I observe, I acknowledge that every word I write is not cultural fact... I am a filter. Everything I see and hear passes through me, before it arrives in some semi-material state on paper.  With a translator, however, I add further distance between myself and my research subjects. I am not the only filter in this equation anymore: Ts'episo is one as well. As someone who obsesses about controlling the accuracy and ethical standards of the work, acknowledging that I don't necessarily have full control of potential cultural biases is an unsettling reality. (The even harder truth, is that I am even likely unwitting of many of my own biases as well!)  Both Ts'episo AND I each brought our own stereotypes, preconceived notions, and subconscious beliefs, behaviors, and systems of meaning with us into the field. Grappling with such complexity, as I begin my fieldwork, has been daunting. I expect that things will run more smoothly as our familiarity with each others' speech patterns, thought processes, and our shared understanding of the goal and direction of our work improves. We will eventually develop a rhythm which allows us to work as a unified team during interviews, but that takes time. For now, we occasionally trip over each other... Not significantly, just adjusting to each other's priorities, expectations, and preferences in the field: Conversations or interactions that I find important and would like to have fully translated may not always seem relevant to her... Or things that she would like to buy or have for us living in village, I don't think are necessary. It can be challenging; frustrating for "Type-A" me. But these minor hiccups are inevitable when you are living, working, and traveling with one person 24-7, but we'll work through them over time.

 For now, I am grateful to not be a LONE anthropologist, and thankful that she's by my side, as I venture into this unknown quagmire called fieldwork.

With love from Lesotho, Mary E. 

PS. One more reason to love Ts'episo: What other Mosotho research assistant would, while cooking dinner, break into a sing-along dance party with me to Sam Smith's "Not the Only One"?? I mean, really... She's currently rocking it out. 

My research assistant is awesome. :) 

Day One

I pick up the reused, 2-liter Coo-ee soda container on the floor and pour a little more water into the small, tin kettle on the gas stove. It will be my second cup of instant Nescafé coffee today. It's not particularly cold and, to be honest, the coffee isn't particularly good, but the air feels damp with rain that lingers heavy, but never falls. Plus, reading always gives me the urge to curl up with a cup of coffee, and I've been pouring over "Writing Ethnographic Fieldnotes" by Robert Emerson, et. al. for the last several hours. So I wrap my favorite Turkish, turquoise shawl- a gift from Anna- around my shoulders, as the water comes to a rolling boil. Even then, I give it an extra minute... I have no desire to give myself water-poisoning in my first 24-hours in Motete.

Cup of coffee in hand, I pull my green, folding camp-chair (Thank goodness, I thought to throw it in the pick-up truck last minute!) up just outside of the one-room house that will be my living quarters for the next three weeks. We're staying in teacher's housing at the primary school temporarily, while I look for other housing in the village... Motete is so remote and difficult to access that teachers, all of whom prefer to live in the camp towns or Capitol, must stay in-residence in the community, throughout the school term. When schools released for Christmas/summer break last week, the teachers all returned to town to spend the holidays with their families. Luckily, the Primary School Principal, Ntate Shasha, was kind enough  to give us housing for the summer. So now my research assistant, Ts'episo, and my supply of food and essentials for the next several months of fieldwork, sits alongside the boxes, bags, and buckets of a female teacher who will be returning in January. The rectangular room feels cluttered; every surface covered. I have to step around hastily strewn piles of things to take the five steps from my bed to the kitchen. The ceiling is covered in a suspicious black stain that could either be the remnants of a fire, or toxic mold... Or both. But the room is big enough, I haven't seen a spider or rat yet (although, by the sound of it, there might be one living in the ceiling above me), and the spiny, wire mattress (which thankfully, removes the need for me to sleep on a pad on the floor) doesn't seem to have left me with any giant red welts from sleeping with bed-bugs last night... So, all in all, 100 Maloti (approx. $8) a week for rent, seems like a good deal. I'm grateful to Ntate Shasha for the many ways he has eased my introduction to the village over the past 24-hours- not the least of which, is making sure Ts'episo and I had a place to sleep. 

Today the primary school compound is crowded with villagers. The dirt road that connects the villages of Motete and Patuoe runs directly in front of my house, not 30 feet from the rickety, wooden front-door. Now the school yard is strewn with men, women and the occasional wandering, and inevitably half-naked toddler, who escaped his mother's back. Nearly every 'Mme (mother) wraps herself tightly beneath the bust in a tjale- a light, plaid blanket worn during the day for warmth. Bo-Ntate (fathers) wear heavier, traditional likobo (blankets,) draped across their shoulders, and pinned over one arm. People huddle in small groups around the school. Bo-Mme sit alongside the walls of buildings, gossiping and trying to avoid the mid-afternoon sun or occasional bursts of light rain. Others ride up and down the road on horseback. An occasional mining vehicle from one of the three local diamond mines flies by at break-neck speed. Normally this compound would be quiet and peaceful. Today it is a hubbub of commotion and activity. 

Villagers from communities across this region have come to meet the Ministry of Home Affairs officers for birth and death certificates. Normally, this process would be done in Ministry offices in each camp town, but the extravagant cost of traveling to the nearest camptown, Hlotse, (M100 each way) makes such trips a rarity for most families. Instead, the Ministry sends officials out to complete the paperwork process in remote mountain communities, such as this. 

The villagers began arriving at 6am this morning; around the same time that Ntate Shasha koko-ed at my door to introduce me to the brother of the Morena (Chief) of Motete, Ntate Mopeli. Now, at nearly 3pm, more than 100 people have gathered, but the Ministry has yet to arrive. Villagers, many with hours of walking ahead of them, begin to disperse. After a full day of waiting, they patiently return home without the legal papers they require. They are told to come back tomorrow; hopefully the Ministry will arrive then. 

As people slowly dissipate and walk past my front door, I am the focus of many states and much intrigue. It's attention I am used to but now, as an ethnographer who needs to gain the trust of the community, my awareness of my own responses/reactions is heightened. Despite the discomforting looks from every pedestrian, I sit in plain view and meet their uncomfortable stares with a constant smile and endless waves and greetings. "Be accessible and approachable," I silently remind myself. At the mere sign of acknowledgement, most of the women break into delighted smiles, eagerly greeting me back in Sesotho. They seem surprised at my openness and acknowledgement- perhaps a little surprised at my Sesotho. I feel a little swell of pride at this repetitive minuscule success. It hardly counts as "breaking the ice," but for an introvert- someone who prefers silence and solitude, most of the time- being this forward and publicly exposed feels uncomfortable. I resist my natural instinct to take my coffee and book back inside; eventually my self-exposure is rewarded. Over time, I feel more comfortable in my own skin... And the community likewise, takes one small step towards being more comfortable with me in return. 

As the school compound slowly empties, and the sun starts to slip behind the mountains that shadow Motete on both sides of the valley, a group of five young women arrive in the field across the dirt road from me. They carry reused plastic bags. Slowly, almost lazily, chattering as they work, they bend over at the waist and begin  picking wild morroho (spinach) out on the tangle of plants at their feet. Every once in a while, one girl will look up in my direction and make eye-contact with me. She makes a comment to her friends, eliciting embarrassed glances in my direction from the entire group, followed by nervous giggles. I can't help but chuckle; I am an endless source of amusement, even when I'm doing absolutely nothing of interest. 

I could sit here and continue to type this blogpost, or I could return to my book... But opportunities like this are what I came here for. It's my first day of fieldwork, and I can already tell that this experience will stretch me in new ways personally and professionally. This work will force me to be proactive in forging relationships. I won't be successful if I don't earns the trust of the women I hope to learn from, and I certainly can't build those relationships from the comfort and security of this camp-chair. So instead, I'll lean into the discomfort once again; I'll be vulnerable and ask for help. I'll use Sesotho, even though the laughter of others occasionally makes me feel self-conscious and uncomfortable. I'll get up and go join the giggling, nervous young women in the field. I'll ask them to teach me to identify poisonous weeds from edible plants... Because this is what I came here for. And maybe, if I succeed,  Ts'episo and I will even be eating wild greens for dinner. 

With love from Motete... Mary E.

My very NEW life in Lesotho.

I have been in Lesotho for one month and five days. Thirty-eight precious days of my time as a Fulbright Scholar have passed. I am officially over jet-lag; no more 3 a.m. read-a-thons or mid-day bouts of narcolepsy. The “culture shock” and hyper-awareness of my surroundings- what little feeling of discomfort I did experience in readjusting- passed within a week. Ha Abia, the suburb/village outside the capitol city of Maseru where I now live with my best friend and her family, feels like home. People in the village recognize me. The fruit-seller by my busy taxi stand called me by name today when he greeted me. And, impressively enough, I now know all of the many taxi stops around the city. Hallelujah for mastering public transportation in the intimidating city of Maseru, where it always seems to be rush-hour and being hit by a taxi seems more like a real possibility than a statistical anomaly. Ha! Maseru is starting to feel like home. :)

I’ve settled into my NEW life in Lesotho. And it feels entirely NEW. This is an experience of Lesotho wholly unlike my life here as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Yes, I still occasionally bathe and pee in bucket (Note: Not in the same one. Ha!). But the latrine is a “throne” and the water pump is practically within reach of my bedroom window. :) I still take public transport, but the trip is short, down paved city roads, and only costs R6 (approximately $0.40). Bo-ntate are still… well… Bo-ntate. They still cat-call and will try their antics with anything in a skirt that moves, but the frequency is notably less than it ever was when I was living in Botha-Bothe. Seeing a white person, simply isn’t a novelty for people who live in the Capitol. I don’t get the same endless stares, or curious comments. I haven’t heard anyone yell, “Lekhooa!” in at least a week, which has to be some sort of Basotho record. :) I have easy access to hamburgers, real filter coffee, and cheese (Yes, that’s right everyone, there IS in fact cheese in Lesotho. Apparently it was all just being kept under wraps in the Capitol all those years! Ha!)

In addition, what I always suspected as a Peace Corps Volunteer, has officially been confirmed: Electricity has the ability to change your entire quality of life. :) It’s so nice to be able to actually SEE what I’m cooking at night, without first lighting 100 candles. No more stepping on dead rats for this girl! Can I get a hallelujah?! Ha! Want to read at 3 a.m.? No problem! Don’t want to eat moldy cheese? Sure! Who does? Just let me put that in the REFRIGERATOR. And don’t even get me started on what a luxury it is to be able to binge watch “The Office” on a rainy Sunday morning. Exhausted after eight hours of writing IRB proposals? No problem. Feel free to come home and curl up on the couch with your best friend to watch south African dramas. :) (Note: My intimate knowledge of the incredibly drama-filled lives of the characters of “Skeem Saam” and “Generations” officially scares even me. Ha!)

Have I mentioned how different my life in Lesotho is now?

But the changes that I love the most about my new life in Lesotho, are not material. Sure, electricity and cheese is great. But the truth is that the real change is something very simple: It is family.

Every night- after a long day of dusty roads, heckling men, and awkward stares- I come home to a family. For those who don’t remember, this is a new phenomena for me in Lesotho. I had two amazing host families during my time in Peace Corps: the Mothobi’s during my Pre-Service Training, and the Qoaqoa’s during my service. During my service, however, I didn’t live with either of them. Through a complicated family situation- which included my host father, Ntate Bereng, having two wives and thus two households- I never actually lived with a family in Ha Selomo. I lived alone on my compound, where my host father occasionally checked-in on me. My kids were my “family” in Ha Selomo. So unlike many Peace Corps Volunteers, I didn’t get the comfort and belonging of a Basotho family on a daily basis.

Now, however, that has all changed… Now I live with my best friend, Makabelo, and her family. They are my Lesotho family. Not a host-family that has temporarily adopted me. Not the kids who provide company and companionship, but whose conversations are limited to short sentences and single syllables. Not Peace Corps Volunteers who provide moral support over text, but you only see once every few months. They are family. This home feels like MY home. As in, messy hair when I wake up, don’t always make the bed, dishes sometimes sit in the sink, and some nights we just eat leftovers in front of the TV. It’s HOME. It feels comfortable. Easy. More than companionship or friendship; I am amongst family. There are no guests here. I don’t have to pretend to be Basotho, or try to stumble through conversations in two languages. I don’t eat lesheleshele, don’t iron my clothes, and I never shine my shoes… And guess what? No one cares. Last week, I got sick and Rich came home with apple juice and cooked me homemade soup. When the Ministry of Health threw my research timeline out the window and delayed my fieldwork by months, Makabelo was waiting with cold beers when I came home in tears. Most days, I beat Tumi, Rich, and Makabelo home from work… And Lilly and I meet on the path, walk home together, and share an afterschool snack. It’s nice. Simple. A small change in living environment that makes a HUGE difference in my quality of life. I can’t even describe how different Makabelo, Rich, Tumi, and Lilly (and even our hilariously funny cat, Max!) make living in Lesotho for me.

It’s an entirely new experience of Lesotho. One that makes me feel like I’m rediscovering this incredible country and culture. One that is giving me a renewed sense of love and belonging in this small corner of southern Africa. <3 p="">

With Love from Lesotho…. –Mary E. 

Ten Lessons from my Life in Lesotho. <3

1. The most important thing I packed was a BIG dose of humility because I was forced to rely on other people EVERY day.

The most incredible thing happens when you join the Peace Corps and move to a new country: You find yourself absolutely helpless. Seriously. You don't know ANYTHING. All those years of travelling around the world or living independently, suddenly boil down to nothing on your first night in a rondaval in remote Lesotho. You don't know the language, culture, or even your own name! You NEED others, like you never have before. You are forced to ask for help EVERY day. You find yourself forced to trust strangers who offers a ride, a meal, or a warm place to shelter in the rain. Your Basotho friends and family become your ambassadors to a world you don't understand, translating and explaining the delicate nuances of what's happening around you.

It's often frightening, and even disarming. You feel exposed. Reliant. Yet oddly more inter-connected than ever before. You realize the importance of community. I felt thankful, grateful, and humbled EVERY single day by the kindness of people who had little to give, but would willingly share whatever they had with me. It's an experience which has, without a doubt, made me a more compassionate, thankful, and giving person.

2. Kids are kids... No matter the culture, country, or language.

My kids were my solace and sanctuary during my time in Lesotho... Because, often unlike the adults around me, they didn't judge or stereotype me. They didn't see a white, rich, or strangely unwed woman. They didn't harbour any jealousy for my belongings, or talk about me, right in front of me, in Sesotho. They loved and were delighted by me; unafraid to approach my house or speak English with me. Their innocence was my blessing. They were my teachers, who never became embarrassed or silenced in the wake of my never-ending questions and curiosities. They were by my side through every day; my cure to every temporary bout of loneliness or isolation. They gave me a purpose to be here.

And they are just kids... People who see my photos might see dirty bare-feet or black skin. I see Mookho, Nthatisi, Lerato, Mantletse, Makoro, Katleho, Mokhalaka, Tumello, Thabang, Rappelang, and Tukiso. I see individuals. Funny, brilliant, quirky, unique, little human beings. They didn't stereotype me, and I won't contribute to treating them like pawns in some international aid campaign. They aren't sad or to be pitied. They have wonderful, beautiful, happy lives living in a proud and peaceful country. Yes, they face incredible challenges, many of which are unjust and disproportionally common in Lesotho. They may have the deck stacked against them, but they are not weak, helpless, or needy. They are funny, beautiful, and innocent... Kids are just kids. :)

3. People are neither wholly good nor bad. It's unjust to judge a person's actions without first understanding the cultural context. 

It's ironic that the most rewarding part of my Peace Corps service has also been the most challenging: my cross-cultural friendships. Without a doubt, they have been both difficult and transformative for me. This is the hard stuff, people... Learning to love and embrace another human being without judgement is perhaps the greatest challenge of our existence. I learned that the hard way during Peace Corps. 

Let me provide an example: I think I gained more from my friendship with my colleague, *****, than almost anyone else in Lesotho. I love *****. He was an amazing friend: funny, hilarious, and always there when I needed him. He also happens to be the person who tormented me the most with sexual advances, beat my students relentlessly, and firmly believes that his wife is his property because he paid labola for her ( I believe he used an example about buying a dog when he explained this to me the first time.) This belief was also the defense he gave when he admitted that he'd once raped his wife, when she denied him sex. Apparently, he had the right to do this.... After all, she's his property, right?

Now prepare yourself, because this next statement took me almost two full years to truly understand: 

***** is not a bad person. 

He's not evil or hateful. You might find it surprising (I know I sure did!) to hear that ***** is a kind and ultimately good human being, who just has some very misplaced values. This doesn't make him wholly good or bad. He absolutely is responsible for his actions; I would never absolve him of his wrongdoings. To judge him without considering the cultural context, however, would be unjust to who he is as a human being.

Part of this lesson for me was accepting that rape, domestic violence, and gender disempowerment are not the product of any single person. They are the product of a culture and social history. ***** is a product of that, too. He is not to blame for all the ills of rape or sexual harassment in the world. He made a bad decision because his culture, family, and background taught him that this behavior is not wrong. In his defense, I do believe he regretted what he did to his wife. He clearly felt remorse and knew, on some level, that despite how he'd been taught to treat women, that his actions had hurt someone he loves.... For me, ***** is evidence that people are complex, and their decisions aren't the total sum of their character. 

You want to fight abuse and gender disempowerment? Good. Do it. I sure fought ***** enough on the issue over the last two years. Just know that when you do, you're not fighting a single person or place. You're fighting a cultural legacy that tolerates, and in some cases, even encourages such behaviors. 

4. Culture is powerful.

Before coming to Lesotho, I naively believed that my Masters degree in Anthropology meant that I knew something about culture. I thought I had a healthy dose of respect for the power and influence of culture on human beings. I had no idea.

Culture is powerful; there's simply no other way to say it that plainly. Part of what gives it it's power, is that NO ONE (even little Miss-Oxford-educated-me) is immune to it's effects, and it's roots and influences are often difficult (if not entirely impossible) to discern... Or at least, they're difficult to discern until you put two belief systems, worldviews, and customs side-by-side and compare them. That is EXACTLY what the last two years have done for me. I've learned just as much (if not more) about my own culture, beliefs, and prejudices, as I have about Basotho's.

People often look at culture, and they fixate on the obvious external differences: song and dance, language, or modes of dress. The last two years have taught me that these differences are NOTHING compared to the more subtle, yet deeply ingrained differences in social cues, relationships, belief systems, morals/values, and worldviews. I can't even begin to describe the magnitude of these differences... They are powerful and always present. It's the way people express their emotions, or harbour gendered expectations. It's how we perceive the actions of others and respond to them in kind.

I feel proud that I have lived amongst a traditional Basotho community. I immersed myself in Basotho culture; I adopted their dress, language, and customs, as much as possible. I participated in rites-of-passage, holidays, and community events. I quietly accepted customs or habits (like adultery, domestic abuse, or animal abuse) that I often considered personally immoral. I did all of this out of respect for this culture. I was just about as integrated as it was possible to be... And my investment was rewarded with acceptance from the community. Ha Selomo was truly my home for two years; I loved my village and community. I felt safe and protected there. My presence eventually became more than accepted; it was expected. My absence will be noted.

Yet even after two years as a member of a Basotho community, I have to admit a difficult truth to myself... This will NEVER be my culture. It simply never could be. I could live here for 20 years, marry a Mosotho, speak Sesotho fluently, and raise children in this country. I would still, in some sense, be set apart. I am not Mosotho. I dress, act and speak the part, out of respect to a culture that I desire to honor and live within. Yet it is not MY culture. I think the curtains my host mother bought for her house are ostentatious and ugly; I hold my tongue because I understand that's a culturally-defined sense of beauty. I find the presence of a full marching band at a funeral disrespectful and rude; I dance right alongside bo-'Me to the grave-site because I understand they perceive this celebratory music as a great honour to the departed. I listen to my colleague proudly detail how much her new husband paid in labola (brideprice) for her; I congratulate her because I understand that those 6 cows and 4 sheep are an important part of her sense of self-worth as a woman.

It's not my culture, but I respect it all the same. I respect culture too much to pretend it's a hat I can slip in and out of at will... I am a white, American, middle-class woman. I can't change that, and I wouldn't want to. I can, however, strive to understand how my own culture produces prejudices that could prevent me from clearly seeing other cultures and people for what they are.

5. Stop building infastructure... Start building human capacity.

I didn't leave Ha Selomo with any great physical monument to my time there. There's no new classroom, or library where once there was none. No statue or building with my name on it. Unlike my predecessor, my school can't point to anything and say "That's the water pump that 'Me Limpho built." My legacy at Ha Selomo was more subtle and potentially difficult to detect.... It's in the people. 

When I started my Peace Corps Service, I took to heart the mantra that it's better to build capacity than infrastructure. But it wasn't always easy... More than a century of charity hand-outs, missionaries and international aid in Lesotho have, some might say, crippled the ability of people to help themselves. Like many peoples in developing nations, Basotho consistently held their hands out to me for money or material possessions. I think my Principal would have preferred I had built a classroom or brought a large government grant to the school. That's what he valued. 

What I valued was people. I stand by my decision to focus on human capacity. There are schools in Lesotho, that desperately needed classrooms or latrines. My school wasn't one of them. After four previous Peace Corps Volunteers, my school had all the infrastructure it needed. What it needed was to not have 8 to12 students drop out every year because of teenage pregnancy. What it needed was to improve Maths, Science, and English scores. What it needed was Life Skills education, to stop the spread of HIV to and amongst our students. So that's what I focused on.... 

I held HIV/AIDS events, sex-education workshops, and put so many condoms on bananas that I could teach it in my sleep. I started a Young Women's Group to support female students and start a discourse about gender empowerment and discrimination. I taught Life Skills teacher workshops, and helped lead the English Club. I founded a regional Camp GLOW to empower young women from remote communities in northern Lesotho. I invested in my students and teachers. THEY are my legacy. 

The challenging part about this kind of investment is that I have to walk away trusting that the community members will now carry the torch and continue the work in the future, without my guidance. I don't get to see the outcome of my efforts. I have to trust that I made a difference, even though it may never be tangible or quantifiable. Occasionally, I got a good indicator that I was on the right track- like the day a female student showed up at my house to proudly show me the birth-control pills she had decided to start using or the fact that my school had 8 pregnancies during my first year in Ha Selomo but NO pregnancies during my second year. These moments, however, are few and far between. 

Building human capacity IS the way to create lasting change in a country or community. It enables locals to be the makers of their own destinies. It frees developing nations from reliance on foreign aid. It puts people who truly understand the culture and context in the driver's seat. So while it's certainly not the easy path, it absolutely is the sustainable one. 

6. It's impossible to work in the development sector from atop a moral soap-box.

There were many days when I felt I had to pick my battles in Lesotho. It's yet another infamous Peace Corps myth: the belief that you can change the whole world. News flash to prospective PCVs: you can't  and you won't. Accepting that you can't change everything is difficult, but it's absolutely necessary to succeed in development work. You can't fight a war on all fronts. 

One great example of this, for me, was corporal punishment. For two years, I witnessed and tolerated corporal punishment at my school. It varied in it's degree of severity at times. So I wasn't always abhorrently appalled by it, but I will say that in my experience, it does more harm than good.  Everyday I worked with students who were afraid to speak in class. Terrified of making a mistake, or who lacked confidence in their own abilities. I saw both young men and women who found violence acceptable, either in their friendships, romantic, or familial relationships. One has to assume that the high frequency of corporal punishment in Lesotho (especially in rural and remote communities, like mine) is an important factor in the development of these habits and world views. My students often had difficulty expressing their emotions, or communicating in a healthy way about their problems. Instead they'd react violently, out of frustration or anger. Ironically enough, much like the adults in their life who beat them. 

Yet I stood by and tolerated corporal punishment at my school, even though I believed it to be an abuse of power and detrimental to the healthy development of our youth. I stood by because it wasn't a fight I could have won. Corporal punishment is a deeply ingrained facet of Basotho culture, and not a habit or policy that I had the power to change at my school. 

I could have stamped my foot and waved my fists in the air in outrage.... I could have put up a fight more often. Been vocal about my disapproval. But you can't be successful at development work from atop the moral high ground. Sometimes you have to swallow a nasty pill, to protect the relationships that will allow you to change something else. If I had beraded my colleagues for something they found socially acceptable (and even expected), would they have been likely to view me as a team player who respected them? Or would they have viewed me as an outsider who didn't understand their culture and point of view? I understand why Basotho teachers beat students; I also happen to believe its immoral. But like I said, pick your battles. You don't gain any ground by judging people or playing the righteous moral character in a foreign culture. Sometimes you have to learn to fight the fights you can win, and leave the rest for another day, 

7. There is power and value to being a witness to another human being's life. 

The most powerful gesture of kindness you can give to another human being is in acknowledging and affirming their truth. 

For me, this has been the essence and purpose of my time in Lesotho. For all my efforts, I can't say I've truly changed much; it's been no more than a tiny ripple in an ocean. Yet I have fulfilled an important role... I have been a witness to the lives of Basotho. I have seen and experienced incredible joys and overwhelming sorrows while in Lesotho. Here I witnessed a different way of life; a new relationship with the world and environment. I feel blessed to have been trusted with the stories of my children. I know this is an incredible gift that was given to me; I had no right to such confidences and histories.

By living with them for two years, I hope that I was able to show my students with my presence and attentive listening, that I value their lives. That I believe that their voices and stories are valuable to the world. If even just for this time, they were heard. I hope I gave them some solace or peace in knowing that someone very far away sees, recognises, and acknowledges their hardships and triumphs. There is value, if even in that.

8. It's not what separates us that matters... It's our similarities, as members of the human race, that are truly powerful. 

When you learn to see the common truths in people, instead of the cross-cultural divides, the whole world feels smaller and more unified.

Love is universal. Motherhood; the unconditional love for a child that you'd sacrifice anything for. Friendship; giggling with your best friend in high school or your first crush on the cute boy that sits behind you in Math class. Family; the sense of belonging you feel coming home after a long trip. Grief; the overwhelming loss of a parent, that shakes your world to the core. Childhood, with all it's joys, laughter, and nagging parents. 

We aren't so different. The way we express, celebrate, and sometimes experience these things may be unique, but there is a core of the human experience which is beautifully similar. We have so much in common with each other. Yet sometimes we forget this. Instead, we try to compartmentalize and divide. We use labels like "us" and "them." This leads to stereotypes and judgement. 

But when you learn to look beyond skin color, race, religion, language, or dress... You gain the ability to empathize with anyone, anywhere. It changes you. It took living with a Basotho family and being a part of my best friend, Makabelo's, family, for me to truly learn this. It took witnessing day-after-day of tiny, insignificant interactions between mothers and daughters, brother and sisters, and best friends for me to recognize myself in Basotho. I was surprised when Makabelo's home felt just as comfortable as my own, or when I realized that I couldn't love her kids any more if they were my own biological nieces and nephews. Suddenly they weren't Basotho and I wasn't a "lekhooa." We were just family. It's made me a kinder and more compassionate person. Now when I look at Basotho, I don't see differentness.... I see similarity. 

9. The purpose of my life isn't to be happy or healthy or smart or rich... The purpose of my life is to live with grace.

"Live with grace. Live with grace. Live with grace." This has been my mantra throughout my time in Lesotho. These were the words I whispered to myself through difficult or challenging moments. Occasionally, it was a desperate prayer or sometimes just a meditative thought... I've been captivated by the concept of "grace" during my Peace Corps Service.

I think it's because I realised early on that it was the single word that captured my entire purpose for coming to Lesotho. GRACE. For me, to live with grace is not to be personally happy or even to make others happy. It's greater than duty or obligation. It can't be bought with money or material comforts. Grace, for me, is living in line with my purpose in the world. If you're religious, you might think of it as living aligned with God's will for your life... As a humanist, I prefer to think of it as living in harmony with other human beings. Living in a way that elevates and glorifies my species, rather than shaming or disappointing it. Grace is me centered; living in connection with the world and environment. It's living consciously, boldly, and without fear or reservation. Grace is me at my kindest and most compassionate. It is my projecting the best of myself into the world, in the hopes of enabling others to live fulfilled lives. Grace is difficult. It escapes me. It is something I often feel I fall short of... But still, I try again to "live with grace."

10. I don't care if people call me naïve... I believe the human species is capable of better.

I'm proud to say that I served my country and the country of Lesotho for two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I'm even more proud to say, however, that after two years of working in the development sector in a remote corner of the world, surrounded by abject poverty, I am more of an idealist now than when I stepped off the plane 26 months ago. 

I believe in hope.

I have faith in people. 

There are places in this world with overwhelming, seemingly insurmountable problems. Poverty, hunger, HIV/AIDS, lack of education and sanitation. My kids have these problems in spades. I have witnessed suffering; memories that haunt me. Yet, I still believe. I KNOW that my students and children are capable of anything. I understand that their present circumstances are detrimental to their futures, but they have taught me, wth their resiliency and laughter, to believe in the human spirit. 

I refuse to look at the world and accept that a species that has unfurled the human genome and explored the heavens is incapable of equality, prosperity, justice, and peace for all peoples on earth. Anything less is beneath us as a human race. I won't accept it.

I hope you won't either.

With love, one final time, from Lesotho... Mary E. 

Rediscovering a Friend

Tonight as Kabelo and I lazed around in the living room, I was surprised to rediscover my friend, Makabelo, through the eyes of her daughter. Kabelo is currently in the process of applying for admission to Berea College in America, so tonight we were discussing ideas for her college admissions essay. We shuffled through a number of stories from her childhood, trying to find a vignette to frame her essay. A single theme kept coming up: her mom, Makabelo.

"Okay... I think writing about your mom is a great idea," I encouraged. "Why does she inspire you?" "Well.... It was really hard for her when we were little," Kabelo said, thoughtfully. "Can you tell me about a time when you were little when it was difficult for her? For you and Tumisang?" 

Kabelo's head fell back against the couch, searching for a memory. Then she slowly looked up. "Well there were some times when there was no food at home." 

I braced myself at the thought. I knew a little about Makabelo's past; the strength it took her to take her two young children and walk away from a physically and emotionally abusive marriage. But I hadn't known this. 

"Okay... Tell me about a time when there was no food at home." I said, encouraging Kabelo to find her story. 

"After my mom and dad divorced, we (Makabelo, Kabelo, and her little brother, Tumisang) moved to a new place. We rented a room to live in, and Tumisang and I had to leave our good English Medium School and go to a government primary school because there was no money. My mom took a job at a factory to support us. It was really difficult... She would have to pay for transport to get to and from the factory every day."

"One morning, Tumisang and I went to school... We ate lunch there, and we came home after school. We were hungry at home, but there was no food in the house. All I could find were some tea bags and sugar. But we hoped that mom would come home with something to eat."

"When she got home, she didn't say anything but her hands were empty... I remember watching her sit down at the table; she just sat there, staring at the blank blue wall for a long time. Finally, she asked us if we were hungry. We were. Then she told us, there was no food... We didn't have anything for dinner that night. We just all got into bed together and slept hungry. The next morning there was nothing for breakfast either... We had to wait until lunch at school the next day to eat." 

Tears trickle down Kabelo's cheeks as she tells me this story.... I start to tear up as well, thinking of Makabelo staring at the blank wall in a one-room house. I can see her so clearly, trying to find a way to tell her children something that no mother should ever be forced to say. I can't imagine her pain, anguish, and sense of failure at that moment. 

"My mother is strong." Kabelo whispers. "She made me strong, too." 

I nod in agreement. Compared to other young Basotho women her age, Kabelo is mature, kind, and self-assured. Much like her mother, she isn't boisterous, but she doesn't need to be. She has a bearing about her that says she respects herself and doesn't need to shout to be heard. I can't help but think of my own mother and smile, knowing all too well that it takes a strong woman to raise a strong woman. 

"I used to be so angry at my father," Kabelo continues. "I didn't understand how he had a good job, with plenty of money, and yet he wastes it while his children are hungry. He would drink and smoke dagha (pot)... It made him sick and crazy." My gut told me that wasn't even half of the story, but still I admired her forgiveness for her father. "My mother had to take care of us. She had to be strong." 

As we sat pondering that, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed with love for my friend. I know Makabelo is kind, giving, and loving... She's an amazing person. I mean we're friends for a reason, after all. Yet suddenly she seemed extraordinary to me. I looked at Kabelo, applying to University in America.... At Tumisang and Lilly sitting on the carpeted floor playing cards in a beautiful house in Maseru. Lilly, Makabelo's youngest daughter by her second (and incredibly amazing) husband, Rich, has never known what it is to go to bed hungry. In one generation, Makabelo has done something truly extraordinary. Her bravery and courage means that her grandchildren will never have to experience what Kabelo or she did. She did it alone. She left an abusive marriage. She supported two kids alone. She sacrificed to send them to great schools. She miraculously put herself through college and became a teacher. 

I've never known hardship or bravery like that.... She is a STRONG person. 

Sometimes you get so used to someone in your life, that you forget what an extraordinary human being they are. They start to blend into the background of everyday events, until you forget to SEE them. Then, suddenly, something will happen to make you see them anew, through a new lense. They suddenly appear before you again, whole and remarkable. I had that experience tonight... In seeing Makabelo through her daughter's eyes, I was reminded what a truly amazing human being my friend is.

With love from Lesotho... Mary E. 

Why I'm Leaving Lesotho.

Today is my Close of Service or COS from the U.S. Peace Corps... It's been nearly 26 months. Twenty-six months of incredible happiness, joy, challenges, and adventures in "The Mountain Kingdom." Two years that I will never, and could never regret. It's a difficult separation; it's been nearly two-weeks of tearful goodbyes and difficult conversations. But the worst is...

"But 'Me Limpho... Why are you leaving us?"

There are moments when I can't even remember the answer.

The honest truth is that I almost stayed. I had the choice to extend for a third-year of Peace Corps service... And that was the plan for the first +/- 20 months of my service. I knew within the first month of my Pre-Service Training (PST) in Lesotho that I could extend for a third year; that I might want to extend. I have loved my life here. Where others find something to be survived, I find true meaning and purpose. This isn't a pit-stop before I go home and start my "real" grown-up life; this is the life I want. This work comes naturally to me. I've never been happier or more fulfilled than when I was living here.

So, you're probably thinking... Then why ARE you leaving?

Well, when I talked to my students, villagers, and Basotho friends, I told them I'm leaving for my family. It's not the whole truth, but it's also not a lie. Most importantly, it's a reason they can strongly identify with. I tell them I'm needed at home, and that my being here has been difficult for my loved ones. And there is truth to that... I found living away from home relatively easy. With long-distance phone calls, and the miracles of blackberry internet-service, I had email and facebook even out in my rural village. That tiny piece of technology changes EVERYTHING about being here. For me, I might as well have been living a few hours away from my family, rather than 8000 miles away. Distance shrinks with technology.

Yet there are some ways that distance inevitably takes a toll on relationships. The last two years have changed me. It's some kind of Peace Corps myth, the belief that you'll return to the States after two years and will still be the same person. The closer I've gotten to my COS today, the more I realize that there are a hundred little ways that my priorities, personality, and daily habits have shifted. I don't care about the same things I used to. I think about the world differently. I handle stress and emotions in new ways. I am different. And the truth is that my friends and family back home are, too.

 In the past two years, I've missed a lot. One of my best friends got married, and another one now has a two-year old toddler, a husband, and is a medical doctor. My sister has started college, and my brother now lives halfway across the country, where he lives in his own house, and has started his military career in the U.S. Army. When I left, my siblings were a teenager and a college student. Now they're two adults. I get texts from my brother, and sometimes I almost don't recognize him. He's so generous, professional, devoutly faithful, and introspective. My father retired from the military and is now a farmer. My mother, who spent the last 25 years as a stay-at-home-mom, has started teaching at a university. Things are not the same... And relationships don't miraculously stay strong. They take work. After two years, mine need some maintenance. I owe the people I love at home some time and attention for a little while.

There's another important reason I'm leaving, but it's more difficult to explain to Basotho. I have loved living in Lesotho, and I know I will return because I have a calling to help people in developing countries... But this is not my path to fulfill that calling. I was not meant to be a high school teacher. I did not love teaching; I loved teaching MY kids. They were what made it special and worthwhile for me. The ugly truth is, however, that I didn't love the work. There's an intellectual part of me that was bored by it. I was a good teacher- a passionate and dedicated one- but I was not extraordinary. Many Basotho could have done a better job than me in the same position. 

I have gifts- talents and passions- that aren't being fulfilled or utilized in Peace Corps. I want to help my girls, but being a high school teacher is not reaping the full extent of what I have to offer the world. I know now that I need to finish my education... I'm finally ready to return to school to pursue my MD/PhD. I've struggled with whether it's worth the 5-7 years of my life and hundreds of thousands of dollars. The truth is that anything less than the best I can offer the world- to my girls in Lesotho or other women in developing countries- is a cop-out... Me as a high school teacher is not me at my best. I have a rare gift for the sciences AND social sciences. I'm uniquely suited to this kind of lifestyle abroad. I may not be a Mensa genius, but the past two years have taught me that our society doesn't nearly value social and emotional intelligence the way it should. And I have those gifts in spades. I'm a strong leader. Resilient and a hard worker. I'm meant to contribute to the world in a different way than I am right now.  And that means I need to leave for a little while. 

Unfortunately, all those rationalities don't make getting in the truck and waving goodbye to my girls in Ha Selomo any easier. I find myself reminding myself WHY I need to go home, because it's difficult to leave behind something that has been so meaningful. 

But I'm waking away.... Because I know one day soon, I'll be coming back. 

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E. (RPCV, Lesotho 2012-2014)

Lesotho Has Changed Me.

I'm driving away from Ha Selomo- watching my little mountain village disappear over the ridge in the early morning light. I can't seem to stop the tears from running down my cheeks. My kids didn't chase the truck out of village this time- I left them standing on the football field, next to my house, looking forlorn and lonely. This goodbye is hard.

I'm not one to cry- especially in public. So I'm not sure when I became someone who cries so openly in front of people. There was a time I would have been mortified by this display of emotion. But Lesotho has changed me...

When I hugged Thato goodbye, she sobbed in my arms while I held her for several minutes. The "old me" would have been uncomfortable; now I only felt the brevity of this last moment with someone who told me in a letter "You have been my mother; you remind me so much of the mother I lost." Lesotho has changed me.

When I hugged Refiloe, Malijeng, Mookho, Mantletse, Nthatisi, Lerato, and Nthabiseng goodbye, I looked them each in the eye and told them how much I loved them. I told them they made me proud and filled my life with joy. I told them I'm going to miss them every day. Because I will and I do. And life is short and fragile. Lesotho has changed me.

Just as I will never forget this "last drive" down my pot-hole ridden dirt road, out of village, I will also never forget the first, terrifying drive that brought me to this community. I was so scared. Terrified. Nauseous. Panicked. I remember meditating. Taking deep breathes to calm my nerves. But mostly I remember texting my best friend from college, Jet. She was on Whatsapp and stayed with me through the trip. I described what I was thinking and feeling- she calmly reached out through the thousands of miles between us and provided a calming presence. Reinforcing and reminding me that, even in this foreign culture and place, I would never be alone.

Now as I sit crying, looking into the rear-view mirror at my kids shrinking in the distance, I text my best friend, Makabelo. She is the comforting presence that walks me through this difficult journey with words of encouragement and reminders that I'll be back soon. She is my bridge now. My emotional counter-point. She promises joy, laughter, and a cold beer when I arrive at her house this evening. My American friends cannot help me through this grief or loss- they won't understand. I need my Basotho friends today. Lesotho has changed me.

It's difficult- seemingly impossible- to leave Lesotho. Even as I drive away, I have the urge to tell Ntate Masiu to stop the truck and turn around... But I'm continuing on and letting myself feel the pain. I'm not masking my emotions. Or smiling and saying, "let's just pretend to be happy because it happened." I AM happy the past two years happened- But right now, in this moment I'm sad and devastated. And Lesotho has changed me- I'm letting myself feel the pain.

I'm embracing the pain because it means my time here was powerful and meaningful. It hurts because I'm leaving people I love, who have changed me for the better. I'm terrified I won't see my children and young women again because I may not. I'm embracing the fear, and all the tears that brings because I would rather feel it than not. Life is too fragile and fleeting.

Lesotho has changed me.

Farewell to Linokong High School

Lumelang bo-Me, bo-Ntate, matichere, le baithuti ba ka,

Hello mothers, fathers, teachers, and my students, 

The past two years have been the most influential and important of my life. I arrived in Ha Selomo a stranger- Now I see only family. I will always be grateful to each of you for welcoming me into your country, culture, and community.

First, I want to thank Ntate Chitja for welcoming me at Linokong High School, and giving me the opportunity to learn and grow as an educator. I sincerely hope I have achieved at contributing something to this school because I have truly loved my time here.

Ntate Bereng, kea u leboha ha u ile ua ntlhokomela joalo ka morali oa hau. Ha ho mohla ke ileng ka ikutloa ke hlorile Ha Selomo. Uena le 'm'e Mapoloko, le ile la nkamohela bophelong le lapeng la lona. Ke tla le hopola le le lelapa leso kamehla.

Ntate Bereng- Thank you for caring for me as if I were your own daughter. There was never a day when I felt unsafe or alone in Ha Selomo. You and 'Me Mapoloko welcomed me into your lives and home, and I will always remember you as family.

Ke batla hape ho leboha boto ea sekolo le batsoali. Le ile la arola bana ba lona le 'na. Ba bile hlohonolofatso e kholo bophelong baka. Ba bohlale, ba batle, ba lutse ba tseha- 'me letseho leo, le ile la lula le khants'itse matsatsi oohle aka. Ebile tlootla ho ba tichere ea bona. Ka bona, ke bile karolo ea malapa a lona, 'me ke molemo oo ke sa tsebeng nka o busetsa joang.

I also want to thank the School Board and parents... Thank you for sharing your children with me. They have been an incredible blessing in my life. They are clever, beautiful, and full of joy and laughter that brightened every day for me. It was my privilege to be their teacher. Through them, you welcomed me into your community and homes. You made me feel a part of Ha Selomo- It's a kindness I feel I could never repay.

To my colleagues... Or more importantly, my friends: Thank you for putting up with me. You have been MY teachers- patiently explaining, translating, and understanding- even when I didn't. Every single one of you made Linokong High School feel like a family- Full of light, laughter, and life. I feel blessed that you've all been a part of my life, and I know you will continue to be a part of it for many years to come.

And now I've saved the most difficult and important goodbye for last... For bana ba ka.

I came to Lesotho to be a teacher- I came here to help children. In the end, I find it fitting that you all were the ONLY reason I was able to live here. You have been my purpose and inspiration. You made me laugh every day, and filled my life here with such joy. It isn't teaching I have loved; it was teaching you. I feel incredibly blessed that no matter how far away I was from family or America, there was never a single day during the last two years when I wanted to be anywhere else in the world, other than here in Ha Selomo with you.

You are each special. Unique and brilliant. You have the ability to do anything you want with your life. Believe in yourself. Make good decisions. Be kind to others, even when they don't treat you the same. And know that you have made me a stronger, kinder, and more patient person. I will miss you each every day.

Salang ka khotso.

Stay with peace. 

(Farewell speech given at Linokong High School on November 13, 2014.) 

The Goodbye Bucket List

I'm six days away from saying goodbye to Ha Selomo... It's been a whirlwind few weeks, full of farewell moketes, tearful goodbyes, and beautiful gifts. I've cried more in the past week than throughout the entire length of my service.... I'm fine with the idea of leaving behind my friends and teachers, or even my Basotho family. It's my kids that make this difficult. 

I feel like I talk and write about "my kids" all the time... Yet it's still difficult to describe to people back home in America why this is such a difficult goodbye for me. After all,  I'm an Army Brat... I'm a bonafide expert at putting on the brave face, giving a hug, and never looking back. It's a skill I've been perfecting since infancy. 

So you'd think that I'd have figured this out, right? You'd think this would be easier. It's not. It's heart breaking. Gut wrenching. The hardest goodbye I've ever had to say. 

If you think that's slightly melodramatic or over-reactionary, let me try to show you why. 

.................

Last Wednesday morning I walked into my Form B Math class bright and early, ready to revise solving equations. Nothing seemed amiss, until I looked towards the left hand corner of the classroom. In the corner, Mapaseka, sat with her head drawn down... But what caught my eye at first wasn't her, it was the absence of Thandiwe and Maretha, who normally sit on either side of her. I glanced across the sea of smiling faces, and quickly found them. Both had strangely squeezed themselves to fit into a wooden bench, with four other students. Mapaseka was alone. 

Ten minutes into my class, I looked up- ready to call Panya, who had his hand darting into the air excitedly, up to the board to solve an equation- when something caught my eye. As Mapaseka looked across the aisle towards Panya and his distracting antics, the light from the broken window pane illuminated her face. Across the side of her cheek and forehead were two giant, bloody gashes. They horrifyingly left her scared from hair-line to lip. Her right eye was swollen shut in blue and yellow bruises that swelled the entire half of her face. Her lip was split open. 

I struggled to hold back the tears I felt welling up, threatening to make me loose my composure in front of 48 students. Now I understood Mapaseka's forced isolation in the corner. Everyone willfully sought to ignore the difficult truth sitting in the corner of the classroom- the proverbial " pink elephant" in the room. No one wanted a reminder that it could just as easily have been their own father who pulled a knife on them to unleash his anger. It could happen to almost anyone at any time. 

There was no police report or call to Child Protective Services that day. I pulled Mapaseka aside quietly after class to make sure she was alright. She is one of MY girls.... One of the 32 female students that I've so painstakingly attempted to empower and inspire in my Young Women's Group for the past year. I've taught them about self-esteem, goal setting, and taking ownership over your own body and health. That morning when I looked into her battered face, all that fragile and painstakingly constructed self-worth had vanished. I had no words- no amount of reading or talking about domestic violence prepares you for the moment you witness it on a child's face. The night before, she'd gone out to see a friend after dark- This was her father's idea of an appropriate response. She'll bear the scars of his fury and violence for a lifetime... But it's the destruction he's created beneath her battered face that I grieve for most. In 15 minutes, he stole from her everything that I'd tried to give her over the past two years. 

.............

Before now, every goodbye I've ever said was done with the knowledge that those friends and family would go into the world and live healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I feel comforted knowing that even though my childhood or college friends aren't with me now, they are out in the world doing amazing things. They're happy. They're fulfilled. And most of the time, I get to watch and celebrate with them through Facebook and long distance phone calls as they bravely conquer the  world. There's an incredible comfort in that- one I always took for granted until I was faced with saying goodbye to my kids in Lesotho. 

There are no such false comforts or assurances to be found in this goodbye. 

I'm going to walk away in six days.... I honestly don't know what will happen to my girls after I do. Children die here. And yes, I understand that children die everywhere, but it's hard to describe the magnitude of death in this country. This is a place where funeral homes are more common than gas stations. It overwhelms. I'd only been a teacher for 9 months when I had to attend my first funeral for one of my students. It was an experience that still haunts me. One day Teboho was sitting in the corner of my Form B Biology class, making too much noise with Lillo and Ketseketse. The next afternoon, he collapsed on the way home from school. By Monday morning, I was putting his funeral on my calendar. It's impossible to describe how deeply the experience of sitting at his memorial and funeral imprinted on me. 

Safety, security, love, and happiness are not guarantees for my kids. My girls live in a culture where men are EXPECTED to beat their wives. It's not just tolerated, it's expected. IF he loves you, he WILL beat you. Some of my children go home to abusive parents, with no hope of government or civil protection. And that's if they are lucky enough to even have living parents, because in my school it's more common to be an orphan than to go home to a mom or dad. Earlier this month, a female student of one of my PCV friends was gang raped by two male students at her school. The girl was told to go back to school the next day and not talk about it- Now she sits in class next to her attackers. Another friend had one of her female students abducted and raped. She was forced to marry her attacker. Not everyone in the world gets an equal shot at a happy and healthy future. In the great lottery of life, it often feels like the deck is stacked against my kids. 

So I get to say goodbye, with no assurances for their lives or that I'll ever be able to see or hear from them again. My kids don't have phones, no less Facebook or email addresses. There is a post office, but international mail is expensive and all mail to the village goes through a communal PO Box, so it's also unreliable. I will never get to see the outcome of my efforts.... I'll never have the satisfaction of watching them grow up and miraculously make it through a University degree. Or live long enough without HIV to actually watch their own children become teenagers. 

This is a tough goodbye. So I'm telling them now. I don't want any regrets. I may never get another chance to impart some small hope or wisdom, or tell them how much they've changed MY life. So I've got a plan.... A "goodbye bucket list."

1- Write a personal letter everyone in Lesotho who has touched my life. 

2- Write personal cards to ALL of my students... No small feat when your smallest class is 44!

3- Host a "Young Women's Group Celebration!" at my house! We're gonna dance, and dance, and DANCE! 

4- Hire my friend, 'Me Moipone to cater lunch for the party, pay her well, and then spend all day cooking with her!

5- Spend a weekend visiting 'Me Malehlohonolo and my host family in Makola, Berea District.

6- Go to church one last time with my host mother, 'Me Malehlohonolo

7- Take Toka and Tsoanelo, my little brother and sister, into Maseru for lunch at KFC! Then, of course, bring some back for our 'Me and Nkhono (grandmother). 

8- Take my little girls, Mookho, Nthatisi, Mantletse, and Lerato, into town for a "Girls Day Out!" Teach them how to mail a letter at the post office, and have a fun lunch, with ice cream, of course! 

9- Give the girls packets with letters, envelopes, and stamps, so we can write to each other. 

10- Write cards to all of my colleagues and friends, to thank them for being MY teachers for the past two years. 

11-Thank the school board in Sesotho and in person for allowing me to be a part off their school and for sharing their children with me. 

12- Thank Chief Moshoeshoe for welcoming me in the village of Ha Selomo. 

13- Set Kabelo up to apply for University in America this winter! 

14- Go out, one last time, to party with my amazing friends and colleagues! Woot-woot! 

15- Write letters in Sesotho to my host mother, 'Me Malehlohnolo, and my host father, Ntate Bereng, to thank them for caring for me like a daughter, and being my family in Lesotho. 

16- Say goodbye to all the staff and students at the school in my farewell speech. 

17- Give all my friends, students, colleagues, and neighbors my contact information in America. 

18- Gve each of my little kids in village a picture of me and them to keep. 

19- Give my Me Malehlohonolo and Ntate Bereng framed photos of me and them. 

20- Give my Principal a framed photo of the Staff at Linokong High School. 

21- Make sure my cat, Piña, has a good home in Lesotho. 

22- Write thank you cards to all the Peace Corps staff. 

23- Have a special day-out with my best friend, Makabelo. Leave her with airtime so we can make long-distance phone calls over the next few months. 

24- Take Makabelo's kids- Kabelo, Tumisang, and Lilly- out for a special day. Ride the new ferris wheel at Maseru Mall and have a fun lunch in town! 

25- Give hugs, and say "I love you" and " I'll miss you" to the people who've changed my life. 

With love from Lesotho.... Mary E. 

The Elevator Speech

When you are preparing to return home stateside from Peace Corps, staff often recommend you create an "elevator speech". They tell you to think about what you'll say when you get the inevitable question, "How was Peace Corps?" or "What was it like?" or even more frustrating, "How do you feel?" I dread THE question. We all do.

We dread it because it's impossible to answer... My answer could fill a book, and even then I wouldn't feel purged of the complex tangle of emotions that has been the last two years of my life. So instead of giving voice to the truths we witnessed and SO desire to tell the world (and not just for our own relief, but out of a deep sense of obligation to the people we have loved and left behind).... Instead of eloquently expressing the things we desperately NEED to say to the world, it all comes spilling out in a tangle of unintelligible words. More than once when asked, "Wow! Peace Corps! What was it like?" I found myself responding, "It was... Well... Everything. It has been everything to me." It's a frustrating cop-out answer. It says nothing and yet is still the honest truth. It is impossible to find the words to describe an experience like Peace Corps, within the brevity of an average conversation. So Peace Corps staff tell us to make an elevator speech. 

I've thought about this a lot... I can show pictures and videos, or tell stories to describe the reality of poverty or the beauty of this country. And I will do all of those things. What is more difficult is to describe how Peace Corps has affected and changed ME. How do I describe what it was like? So this is what I've come up with...

Living in Lesotho is like having your outer layer of skin removed. At first you feel exposed to the elements. Vulnerable. You need others. You NEED them because that protective layer -that shield that you always took for granted in the safety and security of your own culture- is gone. And once that outer layer of skin is peeled off, you feel everything more potently. Being vulnerable does that. It makes every sensation more powerful. You feel overwhelming joy and extreme grief. Hope for humanity, and disgust at human nature. You laugh with wild abandon, and find yourself appreciating the smallest things- a sunrise or the way a child's hand holding yours can bring incredible comfort. You find a part of yourself that you didn't know existed, and it scares and startles you whenever it surfaces- someone pokes your raw exposed skin and you lash out in extreme animalistic anger because you feel violently threatened. You walk around grateful for everything- the breath in your body as you climb a mountain or the opportunity to sit on a dirt floor with strangers. You feel connected to your own humanity in a way you've never known before- all because your life and the lives of other people feel more real and fragile, without that single layer of skin. Your flesh is exposed- and you are, too. 

That is Lesotho for me. The overwhelming emotions... I am exposed and raw. In Lesotho, there's no protective layer between me and the world. I feel everything more potently. It's an exposure that has irreparably changed me for the better.

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E. 

What Sibongile gained from GLOW…

"What did you think about the Career Panel today?" I asked Sibongile, one of my Young Women's Group members from Linokong High School. "'Me Limpho, what can I say?!" she exclaimed, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "'Me Pontso was so incredible, Madam! That woman... It's like she has awoken the dragon inside of me!" she laughed excitedly. Sibongile's motivation was music to my ears... On only the second day of Camp GLOW, she'd already found what I'd been trying to give her for the past two years: a belief that her future is full of possibility.

Sibongile has an all-too-typical story for Lesotho: a double orphan whose only living relative, her grandmother, passed away this past February. Now she gets shuffled around to whichever community members are willing and able to feed her. She wouldn't have been in school this year, but for my insistence that the Principal suspend her school fees until I could get her a sponsorship through Peace Corps. Yet she's a bright girl; dedicated to her studies and constantly laughing. She's been a staple of my Young Women's Group since the very first meeting, and I knew that she needed Camp GLOW more than most.

When Pontso Ts’oeunyane stood up in front of the crowd of girls on the second day of camp, I knew she’d be able to hit the mark I'd been missing. Besides being beautiful, young, boisterously funny, and a proud Mosotho woman, Ponts'o is also incredibly well-educated and philanthropically-driven. As a sociologist at the Ministry of Education and Training, she works on government support programs that help orphans, like Sibongile, get an education. And this year we were blessed to have her join our Counseling Staff at the 2014 Camp GLOW for northern Lesotho!

During our Career Panel of Basotho Women, Pontso told a story with a language, vernacular, and history that was relatable to the campers. Pontso spoke about struggling through school; not always being the most brilliant student, but always the most driven. She described bravely standing up to her father when he told her not to study Sociology, and the pressure she still feels to get married. In two years, she hopes to begin pursuing her PhD… It will be the culmination of a dream that began when she was Sibongile’s age.

When Pontso finished, the roaring applause in the assembly hall was overwhelming. I caught Sibongile’s eye in the crowd; with a wink, she told me that she’d found what we’d come here for: a story with an ending she could envision. What I represent as a role model is often unattainable to my students, so I feel grateful to the Basotho women, like Pontso, who made Camp GLOW “real” for my girls. In the end, it was all too true… When Sibongile hugged Pontso goodbye and boarded the taxi back out to our rural village, she seemed transformed. She was literally glowing.

With Love from Lesotho… –Mary E.

Welcome to Ha Selomo!

My little village in the Maluti Mountains is full of people and places that make it extra special. Here are just a few of the memorable faces and places that make Ha Selomo feel like home... 

The Chief of Ha Selomo, Morena Moshoeshoe Selomo, is probably about as close to the stereotype of an elder in an African village as it gets. Slightly rotund and roughened by wrinkles and scars from years of hard work, he spends most of his time sitting beneath the knobby old tree in front of his house, near the center of lower Ha Selomo. His compound is always full of his many grandchildren, running around playing or making mischief. On any given morning, the clearing under that old tree is crowded with villagers, patiently waiting to bring their complaints, concerns, and disputes to Ntate Moshoeshoe for judgement. In this region, the  Chief's word is law- when Ntate Selomo speaks, people stop and listen. When I first met this much-respected man, he scared the living day-lights out of me. What caught my attention at the time wasn't him, but rather the gun sitting on his lap as he yelled at a group of men in rapid-fire Sesotho. As luck would have it, he'd been in the midst of solving a dispute over the ownership of the weapon, when I showed up all bright-eyed and armed with a pre-rehearsed Sesotho speech. "Holy cow..." I thought to myself. "What have I gotten into this time?! Could this man be scarier?!" But the moment he turned his attention from the young men to me, his face lit up in a jovial smile that I now think of as "classic Ntate Selomo." He excitedly held out a knarly old hand, that was missing not one, but two fingers, and gave me a firm Basotho handshake. He was delighted by my Sesotho, amused by my name (my name is Limpho, meaning "many gifts" and my predecessor's name was Mpho, meaning "one gift"... So when I first arrived, everyone got a hoot out of that! "First we had one gift and now we have many!" They would laugh when I introduced myself.), and heartily welcomed me to Ha Selomo. Now whenever I see him hobbling around village with his cane, I can be assured that a huge toothless smile and hearty handshake are not far away. 

And just across the dirt road from Ntate Selomo's place, is 'Me Mantebo's house. If Ntate Selomo is the quintessential village man, then 'Me is the typical elderly nkhono or grandmother. When the first Peace Corps Volunteer came to live in Ha Selomo in the 80's, 'Me was, ausi Puleng's, host mother. 'Me Mantebo's now lives with her young granddaughter, Lebohang (one of my Form B students), who seems a great comfort and help to 'Me in her old age. Last winter, I found myself wandering around Ha Selomo one afternoon and saw 'Me Mantebo and some other elderly women sitting on a giant blue tarp on the ground in front of her old crumbling rondaval. When I stopped to greet them, they insisted I sit down and help with the work. The were going through a process called khotola, where you separate the dried kernels off an ear of corn in preparation for grinding it into papa. 'Me Mantebo patiently watched, with much amusement, as I bloodied my knuckles inexpertly scraping the maize ear across a roughened rock. I was horrible at it, and the occasional roaming child who sat down to help, always put my fledgling attempts to shame. 'Me, however, seemed so grateful for the afternoon we spent together and every time I visit her now she can't resist but tease me by asking if I've been practicing khotola. Ha! 

If you stay on the dirt road into lower Ha Selomo, you'll hit a T junction in the road. Go left and it takes you to Ha Makhoahla, then Ha Sebophe, and finally on to Linakeng. Go right and you pass a scattering of little villages that fall under Ha Selomo, such as Motie. On this side of village, the road skirts around the base of a giant plateau, atop which lies Ha Selomo holimo or upper Ha Selomo. Villagers that live in upper Ha Selomo walk on foot, or haul supplies atop donkeys, up a winding path, that occasionally moves along a steep, rock covered slope. I quite frequently thank God that I DONT live in upper Ha Selomo. Ha! But if you stay on the dirt road below the ridge, eventually you'll reach Ha Leboea, where my fellow PCV, Brendan or Lebohang, lives. The T junction in lower Ha Selomo, sometimes called lebenkaleng meaning "the shops", is the life of Ha Selomo. At the corner is the largest shopong in village, which we call Rueban's shop, after the young Indian guy who owns it. The shop is home to a very noisy and attention loving cat, Penny, and is run by Ausi Tsepang and Ntate Dan. It's the epicenter of village life, and always full of friendly faces coming to and from. 

Across the dirt road sits a perpetual line of weary old khombis, or bush taxis. This junction in Ha Selomo is the turnaround point for taxis to all the villages down my dirt road, Unlucky villagers who live even further down the dirt road (like my friend Brendan) have to switch taxis or, when no taxis are available (which happens quite often!) start walking! This is where 'Me cooks and sells maquena out of her roadside fruit stand. In the early mornings, this part of village fills with the smell of bread dough being deep fried in a big metal basin over an open fire. When dipped in sugar and cinnamon, her maquenas could surpass even Krispy Kreme for deliciousness. 

On my way home from school in the afternoons, I often take a little dirt path that breaks off the main road just beside 'Me's fruit stand. As I pass underneath the beautiful old oak tree in the center of village (one that two village elders once told me was 250 years old, making it older than Lesotho itself), I pass by the local councilman's office. The secretary 'Me Mamathabi (whose little boy, Mathabi, I teach in Form A) is often sitting outside soaking up the sun, and always gives a loud shout and happy wave when I pass. When I first arrived in village, 'Me and I would sit outside her office with an inevitable gathering of Bo-me and teach me Sesotho. Later in that first summer I was in Ha Selomo, I got recruited into helping the local women resmear the building for the councilman's office.Now every time I pass the  office and see the encroaching cracks making their way across the mud walls,  I smile and think that it won't belong before Me shows up at my door telling me it's time to smear again! 

The path that leads to my house is always lined with the happy chatter of Bo-me sitting around the pump waiting for water, or children running around the football field that borders my family's compound. As I walk down the dirt path, I pass the agriculture compound on my right, where my neighbor works in the village piggery. On my left, sits 'Me Mankapisi's house. Me is an interesting character... Apart from being inexplicably IN LOVE with me, she is also the local sagoma (also called an nagaoka in Sesotho) or traditional healer. Above her compound, atop a large stick flagpole, hangs a traditional broom attached to a sickle? This announces that Me practices traditional Basotho medicine. Her house doesn't look so different from the other brick homes of villagers, but beside it sits a small traditional rondaval, that has such a low door you have to stoop or crawl to enter. This is where villagers come if they suspect they have an ailment related to witchcraft. For being the local traditional healer, Me Mankapisi's is  about exactly what you'd expect. She plump, short, and perpetually barefooted- snow or shine, town or village. She wears rightly beaded jewelry and a bright red and purple wrap, that gives her an air of royalty. She hilariously outspoken and has a loud boisterous laugh that comes out anytime I say.... Well,  anything! 

Me Mankapisi's house sits on one corner of the village football field. Down the length of the field, sits my house at the adjacent corner. Just next door to me, lives 'Me Mamolefie, and her gaggle of kids. With seven living children, she seems the quintessential mother figure. Several are grown and married, while others are still in diapers. Her young ones, Makhoro, Mohalaka, and Nthatisi, are my constant companions around village and at my house, while her older girls Keke and Nthabiseng frequently visit for new magazines and help with math homework. I absolutely adore all of them. 

Across the football field from me, along the dirt road to Ha Sebophe, lives Ntate Taole, the local councilman and preacher. He and his wife, Me Mamatsane are absolutely amazing, and I have (as with most of the families in Ha Selomo) taught a smattering of their children in school. On the same compound as his house sits a little one-roomed brick, tin-roofed building, that serves as a church. Here, every Sunday, a small collection of youth and villagers from lower Ha Selomo gather to worship. Hopolang, and her group of youth ladies lead the congregation in accapela songs that make me wonder why anyone ever thought a piano, organ, or band were necessary. Their call and response traditional hymns fill this tiny, empty, tin-roofed room and never ceases to give me shivers. The church looks out onto the beautiful vista of the Linakeng Valley, with the Maluti Mountains rising in the background. On the ridge, just across a hillside of maize fields, you can barely see my school, with it's tin roofs and blue doors, peaking out of the trees that surround it. 

There have been a hundred other people, places, and memories. Sounds and smells I know associate with home. And most importantly, is the unwavering sense of community that fills this place. Children grow up as siblings, running around wild without fear or even shoes. Ha! Occasionally the air is punctuated by the sound of a taxi horn, but you're more likely to hear the gentle clanging of cattle bells or the voice of a mother calling her kids in from play. Things are peaceful here. I've loved this village immensely. 

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E.