A few quick pictures from my garden, which I LOVE. Planting a garden in Lesotho was the best decision yet… Now that we’re approaching the end of summer, I am literally buried under more spinach (morroho), lettuce, and cucumbers than I can eat. I’ve been unburdening them onto my fellow PCVs and host family. Yum! I also have baby watermelon that, fingers crossed, I’ll be able to break into before summer’s end! Yay!
My mother would LOVE it!
When opportunity knocks in Lesotho- You should ALWAYS take it. That’s what I’ve learned over the past few months living in Ha Selomo. So when one of my Form E students, ausi Thato, came up to me yesterday as I was leaving school, and asked me if I was going to come and visit her family in “upper” Ha Selomo today- I said, “Why not!” Sure, I had a massive amount of laundry waiting for me at home, but it was a gorgeous day… And after a long week, an afternoon of hiking sounded like a good idea.
My village, Ha Selomo, is actually made up of multiple smaller villages that cover a VERY large area in the surrounding mountains. The largest and most prominent part of the village, called “lower” Ha Selomo, has the main road in the region running through it (don’t get too excited, it’s still a dirt road ridden with potholes, ditches, and the like). This is also where I live (luckily enough!), with my host family. Lower Ha Selomo sits on a ridge line with the Maluti Mountain range as a backdrop… But just across the ridge that looms over lower Ha Selomo, lies “upper” Ha Selomo. As it turns out, there is a LOT more to Ha Selomo than I ever knew. My village extends from “my” ridge to the mountain behind/next to it!
Thato and I took off hiking, and along the way found some amazing vistas and outlooks over lower Ha Selomo (my part of the village), and the surrounding villages! Everywhere we went, I bumped into more of my students. They were all SO excited to show me their villages, homes, and families! The entire outing gave me a huge appreciation for how far some of my students walk to/from school everyday.
Thato, with the Maluti mountains in the background!
Lesotho is such an gorgeous country! For those of you who thought there weren’t mountains in Africa- I live in them! :)
Basotho man, with his house and son in the background.
As it turns out, our beautiful day turned into an afternoon of MUCH NEEDED rain. It honestly didn’t matter though… Thato and her cousin, Lerato, made us a delicious dinner, and on the way home we acquired a hoard of my students who joined us on the 1.5 hour walk back to lower Ha Selomo. :) It was a lot of fun, and I loved getting to know Thato and my other students better!
With Love from Lesotho… –M.E.
I am absolutely blissfully happy living in Lesotho 98% of the time. Not a day has gone by that I have doubted my decision to join Peace Corps, or honestly wished that I was anywhere else in the world. I'm the happiest and most fulfilled I have probably ever been in my life.
That being said, the past 4.5 months (I can't believe it's been that long already!) have not been without their fair share of emotions. And rightfully so. I don't think there is a human on earth who could honestly claim they wouldn't experience a wide-range of emotions at such a jolting life change. Yet I keep most of my blog posts, facebook statuses, letters home, and phone calls positive. Not because I want to deceive, but because 1) I'd rather focus on the positive, 2) there is no point worrying loved ones about things they can't change, and 3) when communication is expensive, I focus on the obvious highlights of my life and work- which all just happen to, of course, underscore how amazing my life in Lesotho and the Basotho people are!
I want this blog, however, to be a record of the honest "good, bad, and occasionally ugly" truth. It's as much for my benefit in writing/processing (and one day remembering) as I hope it is for future PC recruits and their families (for whom PC will be just as much an emotional roller coaster) who will read it. So here we go...
Once I recovered from jet-lag and the initial shock of waking up under a tin-roof in Africa surrounded by spiders on the walls, I was undeniably, blissfully in love with everything Lesotho. I was in awe at the kindness and love extended to us PC trainees by our new villages and families. I was enthusiastic about learning the language and exploring this new culture. I asked a million questions about everything. My whole world and every minute detail of my daily routine, whether emptying my "pee bucket" or scrubbing clothes by hand, was interesting because it was all "bright n' shiny" new. The sheer act of learning to cook papa (maize meal) and morroho (spinach) with Me' Malehlehonolo (my host mother) was enough to fill me with pride at my accomplishment. I won't deny that the "newness" of everything was overwhelming and emotionally exhausting. But I'd gone from working 50-60 hours a week in an office in the middle of urban-USA... My commute to work used to be 45 minutes of foggy, rush hour traffic, and now it was a sun-rise walk through a rural African village. I felt like my life was finally happening- RIGHT NOW. Every moment of my new reality captivated me. Every cactus flower, dirty child, and flaming red sunset was the most precious thing I'd ever seen. I was in love with Lesotho.
Yet inevitably, we all transitioned out of the "honeymoon" phase eventually. For some it took only two days before a simple comment like, "Ke hloka ho hlatsoa liphahlo haholo kajeno!" (I need to wash a lot of clothes today!) started to look a lot less like an adventure and a lot more like a giant pile of dirty laundry that would require several hours scrubbing, and more than a few miserable trips to the pump. I consider myself lucky. I think I was blindly "in love" with Lesotho for at least my first two months in-country (ie. our PC Pre-Service Training). I somehow during that time turned frustration into fascination, and mundane chores into exciting forays into Basotho culture.
Yet the honeymoon always ends... And end, it definitely did.
For me, that relatively abrupt halt to “blissfully ignorant love” came as soon as I hugged my PC family goodbye in Hlotse, loaded a half dozen random bags and boxes of carefully selected household items into a van, and drove with a Mosotho stranger (who spoke no English) the 2 hours out to my new village in the nothern-most district of Lesotho. With the move to my new village, Ha Selomo, I slowly started to understand what "culture shock" really means... And it wasn't like anything I had imagined or experienced before.
This is difficult to explain, but its important: The most startling and uncomfortable differences you deal with when you live in a new culture have NOTHING to do with the things you see from the outside. It's not about language, attire, mannerisms, cultural traditions, taboos, rites of passage, or the daily chores which suddenly become necessary to live. I could absolutely care less that I haul every drop of water I use from a pump over 100 yards away, that I live in long skirts because showing my knees would be inappropriate (or at least, attract unwanted attention) in my rural village, that getting to my school means hiking through the fields and a donga (a dried up river bed, that you have to literally climb into and then back up out of), that not a month's gone by when I haven't gotten diarrhea or vomited from water poisoning or some food contamination, or that I find mice in my house and rats in my latrine. To many Americans, these realities sound horrifying, but (and this is the part that's hard to explain) they don't even come close to important when it comes down to what has defined my experience living here. Those chores and occasionally unpleasant aspects of living in Lesotho just simply don't matter. Honestly. They don't even make a dent compared to the things that lie beneath the surface.
"Culture Shock" (a term which I actually abhor, because it illicits some violent image of a disease, that you either catch or don't) is obviously very different for everyone. For me, it was this deep-seeded sense of intense discomfort- As if something, which I couldn't quite place a finger on, didn't quite feel right. It wasn't about the "culture" you read about in a Lonely Planet travel guide or see photographed beautifully on a postcard. For me, it was a sense of not belonging that built up and crept under my skin slowly over time. It came from a million tiny, insignificant social interactions that reminded me there was a social code of some sort, programmed into me so deeply that I'd never truly realized it was there, guiding every human interaction I'd ever had. And then, in the middle of my daily chores or interactions with people, something would make a little chip in it and alert my attention to it's fragility.
It was the unpredictability of other people's actions, such as when, on my first day, strangers kept walking into my house and staring at me without even saying a word (needless to say, I quickly learned to keep my burglar bars locked when my door was open.) Or it was the way that dozens of eyes followed me EVERYWHERE I went because my white skin was like a neon sign that screamed, "Look! Here comes a makhooa!!!" It was differences in privacy and personal space- I still have to actively try to quell my discomfort when strangers hold my hand, when bo-Me nonchalantly touch or gesture at my breasts (breasts, especially between women, are, for the most part, not sexualized) or when a person stands incredibly close to me during a normal conversation. It's the inability to read subtle signals, which especially with men, would normally unconsciously tell me whether I feel someone is a threat or harmless. Here, I suddenly felt like a woman without a "radar" for danger. I've inherently learned to distrust men here, in part, because I'm consistently surprised to find that men I think are simply being kind have ulterior motives.
With "culture shock," its as if I suddenly became aware of all the "taken for granted assumptions" that govern social interactions in any culture, most especially my own. I had suddenly being dropped into a community where, not only was the language different, but everyone around me also had some kind of "rule book," for an unspoken social-language, that I didn't have. It is a completely unique kind of discomfort and personal awareness.
The honest, ugly truth is that my reaction to "cultural shock" (in so far as I can tell from self-reflection) was occasional outbursts of irrational anger at situations that made me feel "out of control." For those of you readers not familiar with my personality, I should probably preface this by stating that I am not effusive with emotions, in the least. My personality is typically very calm, rational, and level-headed. I am slow to anger, and loathe to let others see what I'm feeling. My form of emotional response is more likely passive aggressive, than anything else- Bottle it up, tuck it away, and deal with it later, in private. So needless to say, my sudden propensity to let tiny, insignificant things (such as having someone shout "Makhooa! Makhooa!" from a moving vehicle, or having a group of bo-Me' laugh at me when I tried to communicate with them in Sesotho) drive me to intense and sudden anger, was startling. Something simple would push me over the edge, and it would take a day of fuming and a long, furious blackberry messenger (I am so grateful that I'm able to communicate with my PCV friends in country through texting!) conversation with a sympathetic PCV to help wind me down. I'd HAVE to vent, and I'd have to do it NOW.
It wasn't all the time. I didn't walk around Lesotho in perpetual fits of rage. But it was as if my ability to "bottle up" my emotions had been compromised because the bottle was already full. I had too many emotions- fear, joy, excitement, dread, discomfort, hope- to tuck anything else away to process at a later time. I also think this is why I, an avid reader and writer, did almost NO journaling, blogging, or creative writing during my first 3 months in Lesotho. Processing all those emotions was just too much to ask. For me, Stage 2 was all about survival mode.
So what are my tips for surviving and moving through "culture shock," you may ask?
Step 1: Stay Busy. Seriously... I planted a garden, nested, learned to bake in a dutch oven, studied Sesotho, worked on homemade Christmas presents, and made it my mission to win over the village kids who were terrified of me. Anything to just keep your focus on getting out of bed in the morning, putting on your pants (or in my case, long skirt), and walking outside into the awaiting and inevitable discomfort.
Step 2: Rely on friends who "get it." I could not possibly describe how important my PCV friends in Lesotho have been to me. As an Army Brat, I've watched my father talk about his "battle buddies," and now I (kind of) get it. They are MY "battle buddies" in this experience. Not that joining PC is at all like going to war, but it is uprooting, isolating, uncomfortable, and undeniably terrifying once it settles in. Everyone needs someone who's got their back. :) They had mine, and still do. We're family now, and I know that no matter where we go after Lesotho, this experience will always give us a special bond. Because the unfortunate truth is... As much as we all love, miss, and need our friends and family back home, you just can't "get it" unless you've lived it.
Step 3: Trust that it WILL get better. The good news is, "culture shock" doesn't last forever. It really does get easier. I've only been here going on 5 months and already, when I think about where I was a month ago, I am shocked at how far I've come. The discomfort passes. I still don't like being called “makhooa” or having strange men proposition or stare at me... But as I've gotten used to the villagers, they have also gotten used to me. They learned my name, gave up hope after enough romantic rejections, and realized my white skin really wasn't all that different from theirs. In return, I learned to trust that people weren't laughing AT my Sesotho (but rather, were simply thrilled I was trying), to laugh at things I found akward, and to be bolder with people who made me uncomfortable.
And then, suddenly I woke up one day, and my lovely, little village in the foothills of Lesotho felt like home!
Ha! As if! I wish it was that easy... Welcome to Stage 3!
From the day I and my 29 fellow trainees stepped foot into Lesotho and joined the "Peace Corps Lesotho" team, we've been haunted by a single desire and goal... Cultural Integration. It's probably the single-most important hallmark of a good PC volunteer. It's the key to our personal safety in country, necessary for our success (whether you're a teacher, health worker, or agricultural specialsit), it makes living here a WHOLE lot easier and fun, and it is not as simple as it sounds!
To be honest, I'm not 100% certain, even after 4.5 months in Lesotho, WHAT "cultural integration" really means, or WHEN I can really say that I've achieved it... But gut instinct and two intense months of PC training tells me, I'll know it when I'm there. Maybe?
The gist of it is this... A volunteer who is "well integrated" is embraced by and accepted in his/her community. It's their home. They are well-known, appreciated, liked, and supported. Importantly, they are also safe... Because in a rural village where the law of the land is the Morena (Chief), you need your neighbors, Chief, and host family to protect and stand up for you. When we PCVs first arrive in village, we might as well be infants just learning to walk around our new little worlds. We don't understand the dynamics of our communities, we unknowingly test the boundaries of tolerance and local taboos, we don't know where and who is safe/dangerous, we don't have an "in" to the village news and gossip, and, to add insult to injury, we don't speak the language. We're relatively helpless. We NEED our communities to WANT us there, or we're at the mercy of who knows what.
So long story short, we need to make friends. Now given everything I described in Stage 2, you can understand why this is sometimes a rather discomforting, awkward, and emotionally exhausting endeavor. You think making friends in a new community in America is hard? Try to imagine the stress of doing it in my village where you don't speak the language, and you know that your safety and success as a volunteer depends on it.
There were days that I LITERALLY did not want to leave my house. I dreaded large social gatherings, where everyone would stare, laugh at, and talk about me, but rarely with me (Because? You got it! I still don't speak Sesotho!) Any day when I interacted with anyone for an extended period of time, was a MASSIVE success. Simple interactions with neighbors or the local children seemed to require actual effort… In part, because these interactions were in Sesotho, but also because, for a self-admitted introvert, they don’t always come naturally. I would literally have to force myself to the brink of social discomfort by walking up to a large group of bo-Me to introduce myself outside the village shopong (shop.) Yes, of course, they were so nice and thrilled to speak to me… But while I’m trying to awkwardly start a conversation in Sesotho, they are chattering away at a million miles an hour, and I’m completely lost as to what’s being said about me. It was stressful. I knew people were watching my every move, and I knew I was being discussed and analyzed ALL over the village. I would go to church and have no idea what was going on. I would take my laundry outside to wash, and the bo-Me would stand and gawk. I would start a garden, and have bo-Ntate come up and tell me I was doing it wrong. Everything just seemed a little bit uncomfortable, and opportunities to REALLY interact with a person on a real level seemed few and far between.
Yet, as much as settling into my village was uncomfrotable, walking up to those bo-Me and starting a conversation was absolutely necessary. I had to wake up everyday and consciously decide to leave my house that day, even if I was emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed by what awaited me outside. Because for my village to “get to know me,” I had to BE there. I had to actual go to church by myself for the first time. I had to go and sit by the soccer field to watch a sport I don’t even like. So I did… You just bear the discomfort, and then one day you realize that it doesn’t seem so uncomfortable anymore.
I still remember the day that I first realized that today, leaving my house and interacting with my community, didn’t feel like “work” anymore… It just felt normal. Like I was just going about my life in this community with my new neighbors and friends. I had gone to church that day, and something about the experience (which I have written about in a separate blog post) just felt different from previous outings in my village. It was the first day I really felt like I was succeeding at “integrating.”
And now, to be honest, I don’t think twice about integrating. It’s not work. It just happens naturally, everyday. I go about my life here, and when the opportunity comes to meet new people or explore a neighboring village or caves, I go excitedly and without hesitation because now I have friends, colleagues, and students in village who KNOW me. I enjoy spending time with them. I go out to haul water, and the bo-Me at the pump greet me by name and ask me how the Form C’s did on their Math Exam this week. My house always has children running in and out with homework questions, jump-ropes, and frisbees. And when I return from being away and I see Ha Selomo, nestled in the mountains in the distance, I think “I’m home.”
I wish I could optimistically write that the worst is over, and I’ll never be sad, frustrated, or lonely in Lesotho again! But unfortunately, I can state with absolute certainty that that is not the case. This experience is all about ups and downs… And persevering through them, often in spite of it all. So where am I right now emotionally?….
I have now been in Lesotho 5 months, living in Ha Selomo for 3 months, and teaching at Linokong High School for just over a month. The major transition is over. There are, fingers crossed, no more life-altering “unknowns” in my immediate future. I love my village and school. I have finally got the hang of my class schedule. I’m starting a “Math and Science Club” at my school, love spending time with my colleagues, and am really getting to know a handful of my students well. I’m happy, content, and settled in… For the most part.
The stage that I (and at least 2-3 of my fellow PCVs) am struggling through now is all about learning to live with my new reality. This is my life now. It is my life EVERY SINGLE DAY for the next TWO YEARS. I will not see my family for at least another year (when they come to visit Africa.) My best friend is getting married in November, and I will not be there to stand by her side when she says her vows. My brother is graduating from University in May, and my sister moves to college in August. My father is retiring from a life-long career in the US. Army. And through it all, I will be here… Waking up under a mosquito net in a tiny rondaval, bathing in a bucket, hauling water, hiking to school, scrubbing clothes, teaching, waiting for taxis in the sun on a rural dirt road, praying to find cheese in town on Saturdays, and looking forward to an occasional visit with PCV friends who live hours away. This is my new reality. And boy is it ever starting to set in. I am at the beginning of “the long haul.”
I don’t really know at this point, whether I’m handling this stage with grace or “how” I’ll handle it at all. To be honest, it comes in waves. Yesterday morning, I was incredibly sad and lonely, as I sat in my staffroom surrounded by my colleagues, whom I love but who all speak and joke in Sesotho 90% of the time (thus leaving me out). I am surrounded by people, but lonely. Yet by that very same afternoon, I was hiking across the mountain behind my village with 3 of my students, taking silly photographs, and enjoying some of the most gorgeous mountain views you’ve ever seen. It was exhilarating, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.
I’m so blessed to be here… And I know it. But not every moment is bliss and happiness. It’s hard. Really hard. And my emotions about living here change, nearly by the minute. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t feel tested, and simultaneously a little stronger for it. I know that I will be a better person for this experience, and I know that being here is absolutely worth it… Because the moments of self-doubt, insecurity, and discomfort only make reaching the top of that mountain all that more joyful.
With Love from Lesotho- M.E.
Tomorrow is my birthday... I will be 24 years old. This year my birthday won't be reigned in with tickets to "The Lion King" on broadway, tres leche cake at my favorite Cuban restaurant with my best friends, a BBC movie marathon, or a homemade birthday cake from my mother. I won't be receiving any beautifully wrapped presents, surprise cupcakes from my colleagues in the middle of the work day, or flowers from my parents... In fact, it's entirely likely that no one in Ha Selomo will ever know that, for me, another year of life has passed. Yet what I do have this year, is time to think and be thankful.
I am 24 years old. I have accomplished almost none of the "mile markers" my 14 year-old self once longingly dreamed of... I am not married, in medical school, or having children. I do not own my own house, have a well-paying job, an overflowing bank account, or even own a car (since I sold my beloved Honda to my parents a few months ago.) In short, my life today is not what I imagined it would be... It's better.
I am 24 years old, and I have none of the things most American girls dream of. What I do have is:
I have amazing parents, who each in their own way encouraged me to dream beyond convention.
I have 2 hilariously goofy, and absolutely irreplaceable siblings- Each of whom are accomplished and unique in their own right.
I have friends around the world, each as unique as they are inspirational.
I have traveled to 5 of the 7 continents.
I have attended the graduate school of my dreams.
I have moved 12 times in my life.
I have a place to call home, no matter where in the world I travel.
I have studied and loved subjects ranging from Tissue Engineering to Phenomenology.
I have hiked the ruins of Pisac, and sat on Machu Picchu.
I have spent all day curled up in bed with a good book.
I have traveled to over 15 countries.
I have made attempts at learning 6 different languages.
I have mastered one of them. :)
I have meditated with a Mayan priest in a sweat lodge in Guatemala.
I have worshiped to the sound of Masaai song and dance in Kenya.
I have witnessed birth and death.
I have been a Peace Corps Volunteer.
I have cried with and felt love for complete strangers.
I have gotten stuck on a dirt road in the middle of “nowhere” Lesotho, and loved every minute of it.
I have lived in 4 foreign countries.
I have been a high school teacher (1 month and counting!)
I have worked for one of my favorite non-profits- The American Cancer Society.
I have experienced true grief and extreme joy.
I am blessed. My birthday wish is that during the inevitable challenges and occasional loneliness of the coming year,I never forget that much.
With Love from Lesotho… Mary E.
I never would've thought my most significant experience of "cultural integration" thus far in Lesotho would've come while I was elbow deep in manure and mud. As it turns out, however, getting "down and dirty" with the locals requires just that- Getting down on the floor and VERY dirty.
I was returning from an afternoon trip into town to pick up a package at the post office yesterday, when I passed a group of bo-Me' working on an old house near the village setopong (taxi stop). I greeted them in Sesotho, as is customary and polite, and was quickly ushered over to inspect what they were doing. On this occasion, I was lucky- One of the bo-Me spoke English! They told me they were recoating the house, inside and out, with a new layer of mobu (mud). When I was offered a giant, sloppy basin full of smelly manure mud, one look at their excited expectant faces said that it would be just criminal to turn down this opportunity to do away with some of their cultural stereotypes about Americans. So I grabbed a giant handful, much to their delight and laughter, and began to learn the fine art of smearing mobu. :)
I think they all expected me to wimp out or "get tired" and leave after the first handful (for some unknown reason, all the villagers seem to think that my light skin makes me constantly tired and averse to work) ... But one handful turned into a dozen... And to be honest, I was thrilled to finally be a part of a group of women and a community project! So when we finished with the outer walls, we moved inside to smear the floors with a fresh layer!
Now to all you who imagine that smearing mud sounds like child's play, you could not be more mistaken. Even after smearing mobu for 2 or 3 hours, I had not mastered the technique for the keeping the floor and walls perfectly even and hole-free, that the okhoona (grandmother) beside me made look so easy. Its a skill Basotho women have mastered, and as someone who lives in a mobu-walled rondaval, I more than understand what a valuable building method it is. For one, building materials, such as wood or other "processed materials," like bricks, are hard to come by or very expensive. What Lesotho does have, however, is rocks and dirt! And my rondaval combines the best of both to yield a home that is low-cost, warm in the winter, and cool in the summer. So I'm just here to tell you, don't judge it til you’ve lived in it! My little house might look "primitive" to some Americans, but I absolutely love it!
Another important note about life in a African village, is that word travels FAST... And boy did it ever, when the news was that Me' Limpho (ie. me) was covered in mobu, resmearing the floors of an old house. I swear that every villager for a mile turned up to poke their head through the window, and laugh hysterically while rambling excitedly a Sesotho, "She is a Mosotho now!" And as always, they wanted to take endless pictures of me (as if everything I do is unbelievably entertaining.) In fact, it is entirely likely that every camera phone in Ha Selomo now has a picture on it of me in a considerable state of mud-covered filth. :)
The other, slightly more unfortunate, consequence of my new status as "expert Mosotho mobu smearer" was in the romance department. I assure you it was quite unintentional on my manure-covered part, but apparently my foray in Mosotho house chores was quite the statement of my suitability as a wife. And let me tell you, more than a few bo-Ntate in the village stopped by to "try their luck" (most for the umpteenth time) with the makhooa, now turned Mosotho. I believe I received 6 confessions of love in the span of 3 hours. Now, needless to say, my dream proposal of marriage/love has never, in theory, included manure and mud... So alas, they all left disappointed. Yet, in the future, I shall have to remember to avoid such "turn on's" as covering myself in cow manure. :)
Despite the unwanted attention, the afternoon was absolutely wonderful. It's the kind of opportunity for "cultural integration" that every PC volunteer waits and hopes for... The moment when you really feel embraced by your community. Not because you are an American, or rich, or even because you are actually good at smearing mobu on an old house, but because they (and you, for that matter) realize that for better or worse you are there with them, making it work, one day at a time. It's not always glamorous; it may be something filthy like getting covered in manure to help restore a neighbors' house, complaining with the other bo-Me' about a broken water pump that you all have to endure every day, or suffering through sweltering heat in a tin-roofed classroom with your students... But you are invested in making the community a better place with them, because it's YOUR community now, too. And that unspoken understanding was what I finally reached that afternoon... Mud, manure, and all.
With Love from Lesotho – Mary E.
My delight that my students are moving out of the "terrified deer-in-headlights" phase and into relative comfort with me has been quickly curtailed by the presence of a new frustration. They're getting comfortable with me, and hence pushing the limits of what I will allow in my classroom. While some classes are further along in "testing the boundaries" (particularly my Form B students), I imagine all of my classes will, at some point, follow suit. In the case of my Form B's, they (especially the girls) delight in mimicking me, whispering during class, and speaking Sesotho (which is strictly forbidden at the High School, and is of further insult because I can't understand what they are saying.) Needless to say, it has to stop.
My exposure to Basotho techniques for discipline at my school thus far, however, has not left a wide range of options for my use. This is because the prominent method of discipline (for most rural schools in Lesotho, including mine) is corporal punishment. I should preface this by saying that all of my Basotho colleagues are wonderful, caring people, but corporal punishment (for anyone whom this practice offends) is the cultural norm. It is commonly practiced at home and at school. Teachers regularly carry sticks (of varying lengths, and sometimes surprising widths) as a form of intimidation both within and outside of the classroom. Students are beat for a range of infractions, from arriving late to 7am study or the daily assembly, for talking in class, for late assignments, or just generally for being rowdy or uncooperative.
As many Americans are aware, it is against the law in the U.S. to beat a child at school, and culturally, many Americans even believe it is unethical to beat, swat, or spank your own child at home. For all PCV teachers in Lesotho, these disparate views make for a prominent cultural difference. As volunteers, however, we all come from a wide range of belief systems and upbringings. For some, the mere mention of corporal punishment illicits very strong emotions, while for others (like myself), corporal punishment is tolerable or, at a minimum, rationalized. As a child, I admit to occasionally being on the less pleasant end of a spanking from my father. Today, I consider myself a well-adjusted adult and no worse for wear because of a little physical punishment. So while I would never beat a child with a stick (especially a child that was not my own), I understand that it is the cultural norm here, is unlikely to do any permanent harm (if applied judiciously,) and either way, is a Basotho child-rearing practice that is not going change anytime soon.
Even if I was disposed towards disciplining students with a stick (which, for the record, I am not,) it would not matter. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I am held to the laws in both my host country (Lesotho) and the U.S. So in short, it is illegal for me, as a teacher, to engage in corporal punishment (a fact I have to consistently remind my colleagues when I am offered a stick, and looked at expectantly.) Yet I still have a growing discipline problem. I am stubbornly determined to prove to my colleagues that there are effective alternatives to wielding a stick, and to prove to my students that I am not to be toyed with.
Options that might typically be available to me in the U.S are very limited here. I cannot hold children after school, as many have to walk several hours to get home before dark. There is no detention, and sending a child to the Principal would just be the equivalent of having someone else wield the stick for me. Students here are surprisingly nonchalant about grades, as many fail anyway or drop out- so deducting points is also unproductive. Taking away lunch would be cruel, as for many of my students (especially orphans) it is the only meal they can expect to have every day. Yet I am slowly learning some "tricks of the trade" firsthand and from my PCV peers.
For one, students here HATE being dirty. The idea of soiling an expensive school uniform unnecessarily is repulsive. They also HATE speaking in public. So latecomers to my class are now punished with a good dose of embarrassment when I demand they explain their tardiness to the class/me, and then sit on the floor for the rest of the class. For talking in class, another form of public mockery- standing in the corner with your nose to the wall.
I wish I could say that these tactics have been enough, but it seems they are not. So this morning in my Form B Math class, I finally snapped and pulled out an age old weapon passed down from mother to daughter through the ages... My most menacing mom voice. When combined with a look that chills a child to the bone and an air of extreme disappointment it is proven highly effective- or at least, I hope. I threatened them with the loss of some lunch?break-time the next day... (A rather shocking punishment for them, that I'm hoping will rally the class to police itself lest they have no break during a 9 hour school day) We shall see if it proves enough to strike respect into their young hearts. By the looks on their faces when I left the classroom in a threatening and angry silence, they seem to have gotten the message... Me' Limpho will not be disrespected. But I'm certain the time will come soon enough when I will have to follow through on an awful, horrible promise of "no break" or manual labor during lunch-time. When that time comes, I'll keep my promise... Because I may not have a stick, but I'm confident there's more than one way to discipline a child. :)
With Love from Lesotho – Mary E.
I've been a teacher now for 10 days and I'm slowly settling into a schedule here at Linokong High School... It has been a week full of realizations.
The first is that I am now painfully aware that this job will be rife with frustrations, and if I'm ever going to survive I will have to actively focus on the sometimes hidden rewards. For example, I was ready to cry by the end of my Form B Math class last week. After 5 classroom hours of teaching Number Sequences, they seem no closer to grasping the concept of a general rule for a mathematical sequence than I am to understanding my colleagues' staff room chatter in Sesotho. It's frustrating already. I am all too aware that my accent and English confound them. I could have all the good intentions and mathematical brilliance in the world- It would do me no good here. All I receive in return is blank stares and puzzled expressions. It will get better, "easier" even. I know this for certain, but that doesn't mean that this job will ever be "easy." Not for me, and not for them. And I understand that better than anyone... I live in a community where I struggle daily to bridge and understand cultural difference (and sometimes even succeed!), but expressing it is a whole other ball game. I am at the mercy of my inability to speak Sesotho. So I can only imagine how my students feel. Trying to learn Algebra is one thing... Trying to learn it in a foreign language is quite another.
Yet the second part of this realization is that there ARE a million tiny, seemingly insignificant, and sometimes difficult to discern moments of success and gratification. Like today, when a quiet little girl, named Rethabile, in the back of my Form A (8th grade) Math class, raised her hand to VOLUNTEER to come up to the board and draw a Venn Diagram. I suppose to appreciate the sheer courage and miracle of this act you would have to understand that my students are petrified of being wrong, intimidated by the threat of corporal punishment in the classroom, confused by 90% of what is spoken to them in English, and just generally nervous they will embarrass themselves in front of the new makhooa (white) teacher. It was nothing less than miraculous when I saw Rethabile's timid hand creep into the air... And even more unbelievable when she shyly made her way to the board and correctly finished the math problem without so much as a glance towards me or her classmates for help. I swear my heart swelled to the size of my chest with joy. That simple moment, that one act, has to be enough to make up for all the frustrations and challenges that stand between me and my students' success.
My second realization for my first week as a teacher is that doing this job will require more than my mind, or even my time and energy... It is going to take a whole lot of compassion, humility, and patience. That's because, here in Lesotho, the deck is stacked against my kids. The sad truth is that many of them won't make it through Form E (12th grade.) Most will face truly difficult and life-altering decisions and situations during formative years that should be the most care-free and happy of their young lives. I was reminded of this fact all too abruptly, much like a harsh slap to the face, while in the middle of my Form D (11th grade) Physics class the other day. It was the period just after lunch, and I noticed that 40 minutes into my lecture their attention was waning. My attempts at enthusiasm were met with tired stares.
"You all look so tired! Why are you tired?"
"We're not tired, Madam. We are hungry," they chorused in agreement.
"But why are you hungry? We have just had lunch." I replied.
"Yes, Madam. But there was not much food."
"I am sorry," I answered, genuinely. It was true that newly enrolled students had made it difficult for the kitchen to estimate how much to cook.
"Well you will be able to eat when you get home... I need your attention for the next 20 minutes though."
Throughout the classroom I heard an echo of "Yes, Madam"... But just to my right, sitting in the front row with her head hung low, I heard the tiniest whisper utter, "But what if there is no food at home?"
I wish this was the only student of mine that will ever have to face such a concern, but I live in Lesotho now and these are the burdens of this country's children. My school has more than 40 children who are orphans of HIV/AIDS. Approximately 10-20 girls in our school will become pregnant this year- Many of those will be forced into marriages with older men as a necessity to support their child. Several in my classes are already married with children. Most will grow up without a male presence at home, as good jobs are nearly non-existent in Lesotho- A large portion of the Basotho male population is forced to travel to S. Africa to find work to feed their families. Who knows how many of my students secretly carry the burden of spousal abuse or the stigma of HIV.
It is a heavy thought, and one that increasingly plagues me. As a teacher, my job is to help my students achieve success. Yet how do I do that when the barriers to a sound education are so immense and immovable? Already I inherently know that there is no secret solution, no magical plan of approach. Nothing I say or do in my two years serving in Lesotho will drastically alter the fate of the youth of this amazingly resilient country. I can be unyielding passionate about math and science, and it will never make up for the pain of a hungry stomach.
The good news is that the sense of accomplishment I got when Rethabile's face lit up with a glowing smile of success felt pretty amazing, and more than worth it. So I'll take the little triumphs, work hard, and focus on helping just one child at a time.
With Love from Lesotho – Mary E.
