I'm a high school Math teacher... So as I contemplate my one-year anniversary of Peace Corps service, it's not all that surprising that I find myself reliving it in numbers...
It has been...
- 426 days or 14 months since I arrived in Lesotho
- 364 days or 1 year since I took my Oath of Service and joined the US Peace Corps.
- 8,205 miles away from my home and family
- 1 new language, Sesotho
- 3 new countries travelled (Lesotho, South Africa, and Swaziland)
- 2 Basotho families (I'm a Mothobi in Berea district, and a Qoaqoa in Butha-Buthe district!)
- 2 rural villages/Basotho communities (Makola during training, and Ha Selomo since becoming a PCV)
- 1 school (I love Linokong High School!)
- 326 students or 7 classes taught
- 14 awesome work colleagues
- 4 school quarters
- 1 Young Women's Group
- 1 English/Debate Club
- 1 "Write On!" Creative Writing Competition
- 15 short stories for my Basotho Youth Book Project
- 1 inspirational GLOW Camp (with 189 awesome young women!)
- 35 books read
- 1 broken Kindle (and 1 subsequent nervous breakdown! Ha!)
- 2 Peace Corps Committees (Volunteer Action Committee, and Gender Equality Lesotho)
- 4 Global Development/HIV or Teacher Training workshops attended
- Thus, 4 opportunities to take hot showers!
- 9 trips into the capital city, Maseru
- 4 trips to the PC Medical Office, and 1 to the hospital
- 1 bout of tonsilitis, and 1 of the flu virus
- 2 new scars (1 burn on my left wrist, and 1 one cut on my right knee)
- 2 charcoal water filters
- 3 trashed/tattered pair of shoes
- $300+ in postage for packages from home (Thanks, Mom!)
- 5 inches of new hair (since shaving my head 13 months ago!)
- 22 new freckles or sun spots
- 1 thatch roof repaired
- 4 garden plots
- 1 cat + 1 kitten
- 2 chickens butchered
- 1,200+ km hiked around Lesotho
- R460 in cheese
- 3 bottles of pepto bismal, and 1/2 a box of anti-diarrheals
- 3 dead rats/mice in my house
- 1 more birthday passed (which I share with my awesome friend and fellow PCV, Kim!)
- 2 trips to visit my wonderful friend, Makabelo, and her family
- 15km traveled down the Usutu River in Swaziland (and 4 dunkings in crocodile-infested waters!)
- 5 Basotho funerals attended (and 2 missed at home)
- 4 important family events missed (1 wedding, 1 retirement, 1 college graduation, and 1 high school graduation)
- Countless new Basotho friends and neighbors!
And it all adds up to ONE absolutely price-less adventure!
With Love from Lesotho... -Mary E.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
You Know You're a Peace Corps Volunteer When...
You know you're a PCV in Lesotho when:
1) You spend an inordinate amount of time trying to convince people that you don't walk around with pockets full of candy.
2) It freaks you out when you hear Basotho refer to you by your American name.
3) You can successfully bucket bath with less than 2 liters of water... And feel perfectly clean.
4) You walk everywhere... And chances are, with a giant overloaded backpack.
5) You can determine the season based on your tan lines and the type of insects living in your house.
6) You visit other PCV's and find yourself jealously admiring their latrine.
7) You think refrigerating eggs, cheese, and mayonnaise is madness.
8) You can't remember that foreign language you took for 5+ years in high school and college... And when you try to, it always comes out in Sesotho anyway.
9) You understand that your feet are the most important part of your body to take care of.
10) You would do unspeakable things for a margarita.
11) You hoard trash to use as teaching aids and classroom supplies.
12) You'd rather shave your head than haul the water to wash your hair.
13) Starting your day at 5am and going to bed at 8pm no longer seems ridiculous.
14) A wild Friday night means using the last of your precious computer battery to watch an episode of Modern Family.
15) Your social life ends when your the solar power for your phone battery runs out.
16) You can sing along to famu music.
17) You are willing to physically fight bo-Me for control of the window on a taxi.
18) You'd be willing to, and occasionally do, travel more two hours on public transport just to buy cheese.
19) You think it's weird if your personal space ISN'T violated while on public transport.
20) You love rain, and talk about it incessantly.
21) You see a white person and want to ask them where they're from and why they're here.
22) Writing letters by hand is a legitimate and highly utilized form of communication.
23) You can't imagine what you used to need unlimited WIFI for.
24) You have full conversations with your cat.
25) You lie awake in bed at night during thunderstorms, praying lightning doesn't set your grass roof on fire.
26) You think rental cars are for travelers that are pansies and can't handle public transport.
27) People speak to you in English... You respond in Sesotho.
28) You think the person who invented the shower doesn't get enough credit for his contribution to humanity.
29) You find yourself peeing and bathing in a bucket, while other PCVs are in the same room.
30) You eat papa and morroho with your hands.
1) You spend an inordinate amount of time trying to convince people that you don't walk around with pockets full of candy.
2) It freaks you out when you hear Basotho refer to you by your American name.
3) You can successfully bucket bath with less than 2 liters of water... And feel perfectly clean.
4) You walk everywhere... And chances are, with a giant overloaded backpack.
5) You can determine the season based on your tan lines and the type of insects living in your house.
6) You visit other PCV's and find yourself jealously admiring their latrine.
7) You think refrigerating eggs, cheese, and mayonnaise is madness.
8) You can't remember that foreign language you took for 5+ years in high school and college... And when you try to, it always comes out in Sesotho anyway.
9) You understand that your feet are the most important part of your body to take care of.
10) You would do unspeakable things for a margarita.
11) You hoard trash to use as teaching aids and classroom supplies.
12) You'd rather shave your head than haul the water to wash your hair.
13) Starting your day at 5am and going to bed at 8pm no longer seems ridiculous.
14) A wild Friday night means using the last of your precious computer battery to watch an episode of Modern Family.
15) Your social life ends when your the solar power for your phone battery runs out.
16) You can sing along to famu music.
17) You are willing to physically fight bo-Me for control of the window on a taxi.
18) You'd be willing to, and occasionally do, travel more two hours on public transport just to buy cheese.
19) You think it's weird if your personal space ISN'T violated while on public transport.
20) You love rain, and talk about it incessantly.
21) You see a white person and want to ask them where they're from and why they're here.
22) Writing letters by hand is a legitimate and highly utilized form of communication.
23) You can't imagine what you used to need unlimited WIFI for.
24) You have full conversations with your cat.
25) You lie awake in bed at night during thunderstorms, praying lightning doesn't set your grass roof on fire.
26) You think rental cars are for travelers that are pansies and can't handle public transport.
27) People speak to you in English... You respond in Sesotho.
28) You think the person who invented the shower doesn't get enough credit for his contribution to humanity.
29) You find yourself peeing and bathing in a bucket, while other PCVs are in the same room.
30) You eat papa and morroho with your hands.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
It's not WHERE you travel, it's WHY you travel...
I read an interesting opinion article recently... The author argued that the act of travelling is not, in and of itself, something to be proud of. Now, as a fellow world traveler, this gave me some pause... I absolutely admit to being proud of my "global citizenship." I have been to 5 of the 7 continents, am constantly in a state of planning my next adventure, and consider world travelling to be more than a fun hobby or expensive pastime... It's a lifestyle; an important part of my individual identity. I am absolutely guilty of putting my global adventures down in the "success" column of my life.
Yet there was something to his argument, that I couldn't quite put my finger on...
It made me think about many of my friends, family, and acquaintances that speak proudly about their global adventures backpacking around Europe, taking cruises to the Caribbean, or touring the "Wonders of the World."... While fun and interesting, these are not, in my opinion, accomplishments. Now I say that, fully admitting that I have also spent my fair share of time on sandy beaches; backpacking around hostels in Paris, and London; and taking touristy photos atop Machu Picchu or in front of the Eiffel Tower. I am absolutely just as capable of being an obnoxious, vacationing tourist... In fact, I love playing the tourist, on occasion.
But those aren't the trips I boast proudly of. (After all, anyone with enough money and a healthy appetite for adventure is capable of that kind of luxury travel.) That's because...
When I think about my 2008 trip to Peru, I don't think about Macchu Pichu... I think about a morning break I took one day, outside the makeshift medical clinic I had been working in. We were in a tiny, remote village, whose name I don't even remember, somewhere above 15,000 feet in the Andes Mountains. I remember sitting down with a group of Quechua women that were waiting in the impossibly long line outside the clinic. I recall the feel of the rough alpaca wool they placed in my left hand, along with the hand-carved wooden spindle the went into my right. The area filled with boisterous laughter as they watched me try to master the impossibly complex set of motions required to spin wool into yarn by hand. I watched their faces light up in disbelief at the 20-something year-old woman who didn't know how to perform this seemingly simple task. I remember not knowing the language, and simultaneously realizing that it didn't matter. Later, as I continued to watch their experienced hands fly in mesmerizing motions, a little boy in a light blue sweater found his way into my lap... I still have his picture tucked away somewhere. His tiny, dirty fingers gently pawed at a curl of my hair; exploring, touching, memorizing this foreign texture and person. When I think of Peru, I think of that morning.
And when people flash pictures of grand cathedrals in Europe, I think about the times that I've felt closest to God while traveling... In particular, I think of the day I spent in a sweat lodge in a little village outside Xela/Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. Not a grand cathedral, but just as awe inspiring... I can still smell the overwhelming aroma of the eucalyptus leaves, dipped in boiling water and then used to gently beat the naked bodies inside. I recall the group of women who'd brought me there... Quiche-speaking Mayan midwives, whose holistic relationship with Mother Earth, wisdom passed down through centuries, made childbirth seem more like a euphoric expression of the body than a biological process, wrenched in pain. I remember the heaviness of the air inside. The transcendent state of being brought on by their soft meditative chanting and rhythmic swaying. I remember being overwhelmed with a sense of something more than myself... Perhaps God, nature, or something entirely unknown. It was one of the first times I truly understood that human beings can express their spirituality and humanity in so many vastly disparate, yet shockingly beautiful ways.
When I travel, I do so to learn, absorb, and embrace openly... When I leave, I go with humility, leaving behind as much of my own needs, desires, and preconceived notions as possible. When I return, I am always somehow less American, yet more human. I don't travel for my own pleasure, although I do find it pleasurable. I reap an inordinate amount of knowledge and happiness out of my travels, but those always seem to come incidentally in the quest for something more... Despite my initial intentions, I always receive more than I give.
Those are the things that truly make me proud... They make me proud because it's not where you travel, but why you travel that matters. It takes courage to leave America and travel to a foreign country; to leave behind your safety net. But how many people who travel REALLY do "leave" America... How many people are guilty of going to a new country, but only speaking English? How many times have I seen tourists frequent a McDonald's while just across the street sits a local deli, restaurant, or street stand run by a local business man or woman? How often do people visit a culture, but never take the time to talk to someone who actually lives there? Find themselves in a new city, but never walk down a single street not outlined in their travel guide? Yes, it is courageous to board a plane, but it is something more to leave behind your comfort, ego, and own culture to truly embrace a new one. It is wonderful to want to learn about a new culture, but selfish to take without contributing something in return to the people you learned from.
Travel can be so much more, if you focus on why you go instead of where you go...
With Love from Lesotho... Mary E.
Yet there was something to his argument, that I couldn't quite put my finger on...
It made me think about many of my friends, family, and acquaintances that speak proudly about their global adventures backpacking around Europe, taking cruises to the Caribbean, or touring the "Wonders of the World."... While fun and interesting, these are not, in my opinion, accomplishments. Now I say that, fully admitting that I have also spent my fair share of time on sandy beaches; backpacking around hostels in Paris, and London; and taking touristy photos atop Machu Picchu or in front of the Eiffel Tower. I am absolutely just as capable of being an obnoxious, vacationing tourist... In fact, I love playing the tourist, on occasion.
But those aren't the trips I boast proudly of. (After all, anyone with enough money and a healthy appetite for adventure is capable of that kind of luxury travel.) That's because...
When I think about my 2008 trip to Peru, I don't think about Macchu Pichu... I think about a morning break I took one day, outside the makeshift medical clinic I had been working in. We were in a tiny, remote village, whose name I don't even remember, somewhere above 15,000 feet in the Andes Mountains. I remember sitting down with a group of Quechua women that were waiting in the impossibly long line outside the clinic. I recall the feel of the rough alpaca wool they placed in my left hand, along with the hand-carved wooden spindle the went into my right. The area filled with boisterous laughter as they watched me try to master the impossibly complex set of motions required to spin wool into yarn by hand. I watched their faces light up in disbelief at the 20-something year-old woman who didn't know how to perform this seemingly simple task. I remember not knowing the language, and simultaneously realizing that it didn't matter. Later, as I continued to watch their experienced hands fly in mesmerizing motions, a little boy in a light blue sweater found his way into my lap... I still have his picture tucked away somewhere. His tiny, dirty fingers gently pawed at a curl of my hair; exploring, touching, memorizing this foreign texture and person. When I think of Peru, I think of that morning.
And when people flash pictures of grand cathedrals in Europe, I think about the times that I've felt closest to God while traveling... In particular, I think of the day I spent in a sweat lodge in a little village outside Xela/Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. Not a grand cathedral, but just as awe inspiring... I can still smell the overwhelming aroma of the eucalyptus leaves, dipped in boiling water and then used to gently beat the naked bodies inside. I recall the group of women who'd brought me there... Quiche-speaking Mayan midwives, whose holistic relationship with Mother Earth, wisdom passed down through centuries, made childbirth seem more like a euphoric expression of the body than a biological process, wrenched in pain. I remember the heaviness of the air inside. The transcendent state of being brought on by their soft meditative chanting and rhythmic swaying. I remember being overwhelmed with a sense of something more than myself... Perhaps God, nature, or something entirely unknown. It was one of the first times I truly understood that human beings can express their spirituality and humanity in so many vastly disparate, yet shockingly beautiful ways.
When I travel, I do so to learn, absorb, and embrace openly... When I leave, I go with humility, leaving behind as much of my own needs, desires, and preconceived notions as possible. When I return, I am always somehow less American, yet more human. I don't travel for my own pleasure, although I do find it pleasurable. I reap an inordinate amount of knowledge and happiness out of my travels, but those always seem to come incidentally in the quest for something more... Despite my initial intentions, I always receive more than I give.
Those are the things that truly make me proud... They make me proud because it's not where you travel, but why you travel that matters. It takes courage to leave America and travel to a foreign country; to leave behind your safety net. But how many people who travel REALLY do "leave" America... How many people are guilty of going to a new country, but only speaking English? How many times have I seen tourists frequent a McDonald's while just across the street sits a local deli, restaurant, or street stand run by a local business man or woman? How often do people visit a culture, but never take the time to talk to someone who actually lives there? Find themselves in a new city, but never walk down a single street not outlined in their travel guide? Yes, it is courageous to board a plane, but it is something more to leave behind your comfort, ego, and own culture to truly embrace a new one. It is wonderful to want to learn about a new culture, but selfish to take without contributing something in return to the people you learned from.
Travel can be so much more, if you focus on why you go instead of where you go...
With Love from Lesotho... Mary E.
Voices of Basotho Youth
When I joined Peace Corps, I knew that writing, for reflection, stress-relief, and documentation, would be an important part of my service. What I didn't anticipate, was that the writing would not always necessarily be my own...
As anyone who has ever been a PCV can tell you, the idea of putting such an intense array of emotions, memories, challenges, and joys down on paper can be a daunting task. Seemingly impossible, in fact. I journal and blog, compile little snippets of my thoughts and experiences, but the ability to convey an overall sense of my journey in Lesotho still escapes me. I wonder if I'll ever be able to describe it.
Yet the longer I've worked with youth in Ha Selomo, the more I've come to realize that I am telling the wrong stories. If I want to truly convey my own experience in Lesotho, then the story isn't just my own... It also belongs to my kids.
My work and life in Lesotho seems so intimately entangled and invested in the lives, futures, and dreams of my kids (both at school and in my village) that their experiences have, in a sense, become my own. Their problems are what keep me awake at night. Their successes are what I celebrate. Their sorrow and loses are what I mourn, and then struggle to come to terms with. Their world view is the one that I am attempting to learn from and understand. It took me a while to realize that theirs are the stories that I want to help send into the world... Theirs are the voices that are rarely heard or validated.
So this past August, I began collecting short stories, poetry, and art work from youth of all ages, in the hopes of eventually creating a publishable book! It's my small attempt to encapsulate some small part of what it means to be a young person in Lesotho... To, rather than leave a legacy in Lesotho, allow my kids to leave one for the world.
And it has turned out to be a greater blessing than I ever could have imagined...
For one, it has given me the opportunity to get to know so many youth, that I might otherwise never have spent one-on-one time with... Some of the writers are my high school students, but others are young adults, fresh out of school and facing an uncertain future and impossible job market. Others are primary school children, evidence that languages and cultures may differ but the joys and delights of childhood are universal. Some are struggling through impossible situations: family's with no money for food or young women in abusive relationships. Children who can never say aloud that AIDS robbed them of their parents, but for whom whispers still follow them everywhere. A 16 year-old mother, who has already known the grief of burying a child; a young man forced to herd animals, rather than attend school.
The intimate thoughts, stories, and secrets they have placed in my trust, have nearly instantaneously endeared every single one of them to me, in a way I'd never anticipated. As I watch them write, think, and struggle to find words (often in a foreign language) to describe their experiences and world view, I can see them also desperately searching to give voice to something more important... Each story is absolutely unique, both in topic and perspective, but they all ring of a common message, to my ears:
They say, "Don't forget us. Don't forget us... We also belong to this world."
I know that these youth have something to say that deserves to be celebrated, forgiven, or merely acknowledged by this world... And that is all the motivation I will ever need.
With Love from Lesotho... Mary E.
As anyone who has ever been a PCV can tell you, the idea of putting such an intense array of emotions, memories, challenges, and joys down on paper can be a daunting task. Seemingly impossible, in fact. I journal and blog, compile little snippets of my thoughts and experiences, but the ability to convey an overall sense of my journey in Lesotho still escapes me. I wonder if I'll ever be able to describe it.
Yet the longer I've worked with youth in Ha Selomo, the more I've come to realize that I am telling the wrong stories. If I want to truly convey my own experience in Lesotho, then the story isn't just my own... It also belongs to my kids.
My work and life in Lesotho seems so intimately entangled and invested in the lives, futures, and dreams of my kids (both at school and in my village) that their experiences have, in a sense, become my own. Their problems are what keep me awake at night. Their successes are what I celebrate. Their sorrow and loses are what I mourn, and then struggle to come to terms with. Their world view is the one that I am attempting to learn from and understand. It took me a while to realize that theirs are the stories that I want to help send into the world... Theirs are the voices that are rarely heard or validated.
So this past August, I began collecting short stories, poetry, and art work from youth of all ages, in the hopes of eventually creating a publishable book! It's my small attempt to encapsulate some small part of what it means to be a young person in Lesotho... To, rather than leave a legacy in Lesotho, allow my kids to leave one for the world.
And it has turned out to be a greater blessing than I ever could have imagined...
For one, it has given me the opportunity to get to know so many youth, that I might otherwise never have spent one-on-one time with... Some of the writers are my high school students, but others are young adults, fresh out of school and facing an uncertain future and impossible job market. Others are primary school children, evidence that languages and cultures may differ but the joys and delights of childhood are universal. Some are struggling through impossible situations: family's with no money for food or young women in abusive relationships. Children who can never say aloud that AIDS robbed them of their parents, but for whom whispers still follow them everywhere. A 16 year-old mother, who has already known the grief of burying a child; a young man forced to herd animals, rather than attend school.
The intimate thoughts, stories, and secrets they have placed in my trust, have nearly instantaneously endeared every single one of them to me, in a way I'd never anticipated. As I watch them write, think, and struggle to find words (often in a foreign language) to describe their experiences and world view, I can see them also desperately searching to give voice to something more important... Each story is absolutely unique, both in topic and perspective, but they all ring of a common message, to my ears:
They say, "Don't forget us. Don't forget us... We also belong to this world."
I know that these youth have something to say that deserves to be celebrated, forgiven, or merely acknowledged by this world... And that is all the motivation I will ever need.
With Love from Lesotho... Mary E.
The Cost of "Bad" Development.
"Of course, Sesotho should be taught in schools!" I defended adamantly to my colleagues. They laughed to see me in the throngs of yet another friendly, but typical "staffroom debate." "But why, Limphosa?!"replied our Agriculture teacher, Ntate Musi. "Why should we be speaking Sesotho?... What good has it ever done for Basotho?" "Yes!" echoed my friend, Chris, passionately. "English! Sekhooa is the only way for people to make money in today's world... It's globalization!"
I shook my head, exasperated to find myself, yet again, defending the merits of a culture, not even my own. "It's important." I reasserted stubbornly. "Lesotho is the ONLY country in the world where Sesotho is taught and spoken... If you don't teach it to your children, people will stop speaking it. It will disappear, and with it, an important part of YOUR Basotho heritage." Laughter rolled across the staffroom again, at my apparent naivete. "Heritage?!" They railed unanimously. "What do we care about heritage? We need money! The people are starving; working too hard just to be poor! The only thing we need is money..." Ntate Musi advocated. "You say that, and I understand... But being "developed" does not have to mean loosing the old ways. Why can't your children have both?" I reasoned, trying to bring them all around. It seemed fruitless... "We can't have both though. Sesotho is no good... It only holds us back. We have to be like the Americans and speak English!" Ntate Musi continued admiringly.
I felt my heart sink a little bit. THIS, I thought, is the problem with globalization.
You see, when I first joined Peace Corps, I did it with an inordinate degree of apprehension. Not because I questioned my ability to learn a new language, or live without electricity, but because I questioned (and still do) the ethics of development work.
Working in the global development sector is conflicting for me. It's difficult because I'm an anthropologist; I value cultural difference and preservation. I think that there are some things in the world which, by their very nature, defy monetary value... Languages; knowledge of indigenous plants and animals; diverse ways of understanding and experiencing the human body, endless forms of expression through song and dance; knowledge of medical practices; unwritten histories, disparate ways of viewing the world and the role of human beings in that world. The value of these things to the human race, in my opinion, could not possibly be over estimated.
Unfortunately, in societies where poverty overwhelms and death lurks in the shadows, indigenous languages, customs, and unique world-views are often sacrificed at the alter of "progress." At the time they seem a small price to pay for health, a full belly, and physical comfort. So it's not surprising that, so often, the very peoples whose cultural heritages are being lost, fail to truly assess the cost of globalization, until it's too late. Development becomes incorrectly associated with being "less traditional" and "more western."
As a teacher, I see it every day... My students dream of cars, electricity, and "sharp" clothes, as they say. They aspire to careers that will give them brick houses in the capital city, Maseru... And the careers that get them there matter very little to most. When I ask my Form D's what they want to be when they grow up, they often reply, "Maybe a nurse, or engineer. But if not that, then perhaps a teacher or travel agent... Whatever I can." A career is not a pursuit of passion, interest, talent, or even moral obligation. It is solely the product of opportunity... A necessary step to a life they deem to be more desirable, modern, and, by association, "westernized." They view education as a mere means to escape.
This means that, for many Basotho, village life is increasingly vilified as undesirable and archaic. Educated Basotho gasp in shock when I tell them I live without running water and electricity. "But why?!" They say with genuine confusion. "Don't you want to move to town?!" "Not at all!" I answer, laughingly. "I absolutely love my village. There is no place else in Lesotho I would rather live," I tell them honestly. They just shake their heads in disbelief. My skin-color, sun-glasses, and well-tailored clothes mark me as the ultimate conundrum... A westerner who had the life they desperately dream of, and gave it all up gladly for a thatch-roofed rondaval in a rural Basotho village.
For me, this resistance to, and even lash-back against a "traditional Basotho lifestyle" is a sad product of globalization, and an inevitable sign of cultural loss. It saddens me, because it is not necessary.
While we anthropologists may fight for the preservation of culture, most of us understand that "preservation" does not necessarily mean inhibiting "progress." In fact, any good anthropologist would tell you that the concept of "freezing" a culture in time is not only impossible, but absolutely naïve. No culture is static. Rather ALL cultures are constantly in a process of evolving and adapting to changes in political structures, environments, climates, religions, technology, ect. And this isn't a bad thing; it's inevitable.The sad part comes when that evolution of culture leads to it's own destruction or loss. When cultures dissipate and are lost to history because people cease to remember, celebrate, and practice them into existence.
THIS was my fear as a Peace Corps Volunteer... When I joined Peace Corps to be a teacher, I was worried that by teaching IN English, and with an inherently western perspective, I would inadvertently be contributing to the slow demise of Basotho culture.
After a year in Lesotho, however, I understand more than ever, that it doesn't have to be that way... Although it so often does, development does not have to destroy culture. It's possible for a country and society to maintain it's own unique heritage and world-view, but only when it dedicates itself to forging a path ahead that specifically protects such legacies. Doing this requires that indigenous peoples be the makers of their OWN future. They have to be involved in their own development as the "designers," rather than just the menial office staff or manual labor. It requires that cultural practices and traditions are evolved and incorporated into modern society... Whether through cultural days in schools, or new interpretations of rite of passages, as when many Basotho choose to have a "white wedding" but ALSO pay labola (the bride-price). It requires tolerance and respect on the part of neighboring countries and political powers... International allies who understand that being different does not make a society primitive or unevolved. It requires education performed from the viewpoint of that society; education that emphasizes what is relevant to those people. For example, Religious Studies, Sesotho and Agriculture are all VERY important components of the education system in Lesotho. But more than all that, there has to be a sense of pride and identity that is maintained in the minds and hearts of the people themselves... A respect and tolerance for the "old ways; an understanding that being "developed" doesn't have to mean being "American" or being "British." The consciousness to recognize inherently western perspectives in their midst and resist them. This discrete invasion of western thoughts and influences, over time, removes the ability of diverse cultures to formulate their own world views... And along the way, something truly valuable is lost to the world forever.
Everyday I walk a delicate tight-rope, trying to balance my own pride in my culture and country, with a desire for the Basotho people to resist the overwhelming force of western influence. I can only hope that, with enough humility and introspection, I will leave Lesotho having done more help than harm to it's cultural legacy. I hope that by teaching my girls self-confidence and to think independently, they are learning to forge their OWN ideas about what it means to be a strong and liberated women- even if those ideas often conflict with my own. That by giving all my students the skills to go forth and be lawyers, doctors, and engineers, they will return to their country and lead it for themselves. That through my book project and friendships, I will spend more time listening than I do talking. That by showing my colleagues the honest truth of America, rather than allowing them to keep it on a pedestal as the "nation without flaws," they will understand that there is no secret path that leads to wealth and power... It's a future they can and should forge for themselves, according to their own desires for their country.
Because only one thing is certain in this day and age... Development will happen. I only hope that, as it does, the Basotho people will be the ones independently and confidently leading the way for this small, but incredibly unique and culturally-valuable society.
With Love from Lesotho... -Mary E.
I shook my head, exasperated to find myself, yet again, defending the merits of a culture, not even my own. "It's important." I reasserted stubbornly. "Lesotho is the ONLY country in the world where Sesotho is taught and spoken... If you don't teach it to your children, people will stop speaking it. It will disappear, and with it, an important part of YOUR Basotho heritage." Laughter rolled across the staffroom again, at my apparent naivete. "Heritage?!" They railed unanimously. "What do we care about heritage? We need money! The people are starving; working too hard just to be poor! The only thing we need is money..." Ntate Musi advocated. "You say that, and I understand... But being "developed" does not have to mean loosing the old ways. Why can't your children have both?" I reasoned, trying to bring them all around. It seemed fruitless... "We can't have both though. Sesotho is no good... It only holds us back. We have to be like the Americans and speak English!" Ntate Musi continued admiringly.
I felt my heart sink a little bit. THIS, I thought, is the problem with globalization.
You see, when I first joined Peace Corps, I did it with an inordinate degree of apprehension. Not because I questioned my ability to learn a new language, or live without electricity, but because I questioned (and still do) the ethics of development work.
Working in the global development sector is conflicting for me. It's difficult because I'm an anthropologist; I value cultural difference and preservation. I think that there are some things in the world which, by their very nature, defy monetary value... Languages; knowledge of indigenous plants and animals; diverse ways of understanding and experiencing the human body, endless forms of expression through song and dance; knowledge of medical practices; unwritten histories, disparate ways of viewing the world and the role of human beings in that world. The value of these things to the human race, in my opinion, could not possibly be over estimated.
Unfortunately, in societies where poverty overwhelms and death lurks in the shadows, indigenous languages, customs, and unique world-views are often sacrificed at the alter of "progress." At the time they seem a small price to pay for health, a full belly, and physical comfort. So it's not surprising that, so often, the very peoples whose cultural heritages are being lost, fail to truly assess the cost of globalization, until it's too late. Development becomes incorrectly associated with being "less traditional" and "more western."
As a teacher, I see it every day... My students dream of cars, electricity, and "sharp" clothes, as they say. They aspire to careers that will give them brick houses in the capital city, Maseru... And the careers that get them there matter very little to most. When I ask my Form D's what they want to be when they grow up, they often reply, "Maybe a nurse, or engineer. But if not that, then perhaps a teacher or travel agent... Whatever I can." A career is not a pursuit of passion, interest, talent, or even moral obligation. It is solely the product of opportunity... A necessary step to a life they deem to be more desirable, modern, and, by association, "westernized." They view education as a mere means to escape.
This means that, for many Basotho, village life is increasingly vilified as undesirable and archaic. Educated Basotho gasp in shock when I tell them I live without running water and electricity. "But why?!" They say with genuine confusion. "Don't you want to move to town?!" "Not at all!" I answer, laughingly. "I absolutely love my village. There is no place else in Lesotho I would rather live," I tell them honestly. They just shake their heads in disbelief. My skin-color, sun-glasses, and well-tailored clothes mark me as the ultimate conundrum... A westerner who had the life they desperately dream of, and gave it all up gladly for a thatch-roofed rondaval in a rural Basotho village.
For me, this resistance to, and even lash-back against a "traditional Basotho lifestyle" is a sad product of globalization, and an inevitable sign of cultural loss. It saddens me, because it is not necessary.
While we anthropologists may fight for the preservation of culture, most of us understand that "preservation" does not necessarily mean inhibiting "progress." In fact, any good anthropologist would tell you that the concept of "freezing" a culture in time is not only impossible, but absolutely naïve. No culture is static. Rather ALL cultures are constantly in a process of evolving and adapting to changes in political structures, environments, climates, religions, technology, ect. And this isn't a bad thing; it's inevitable.The sad part comes when that evolution of culture leads to it's own destruction or loss. When cultures dissipate and are lost to history because people cease to remember, celebrate, and practice them into existence.
THIS was my fear as a Peace Corps Volunteer... When I joined Peace Corps to be a teacher, I was worried that by teaching IN English, and with an inherently western perspective, I would inadvertently be contributing to the slow demise of Basotho culture.
After a year in Lesotho, however, I understand more than ever, that it doesn't have to be that way... Although it so often does, development does not have to destroy culture. It's possible for a country and society to maintain it's own unique heritage and world-view, but only when it dedicates itself to forging a path ahead that specifically protects such legacies. Doing this requires that indigenous peoples be the makers of their OWN future. They have to be involved in their own development as the "designers," rather than just the menial office staff or manual labor. It requires that cultural practices and traditions are evolved and incorporated into modern society... Whether through cultural days in schools, or new interpretations of rite of passages, as when many Basotho choose to have a "white wedding" but ALSO pay labola (the bride-price). It requires tolerance and respect on the part of neighboring countries and political powers... International allies who understand that being different does not make a society primitive or unevolved. It requires education performed from the viewpoint of that society; education that emphasizes what is relevant to those people. For example, Religious Studies, Sesotho and Agriculture are all VERY important components of the education system in Lesotho. But more than all that, there has to be a sense of pride and identity that is maintained in the minds and hearts of the people themselves... A respect and tolerance for the "old ways; an understanding that being "developed" doesn't have to mean being "American" or being "British." The consciousness to recognize inherently western perspectives in their midst and resist them. This discrete invasion of western thoughts and influences, over time, removes the ability of diverse cultures to formulate their own world views... And along the way, something truly valuable is lost to the world forever.
Everyday I walk a delicate tight-rope, trying to balance my own pride in my culture and country, with a desire for the Basotho people to resist the overwhelming force of western influence. I can only hope that, with enough humility and introspection, I will leave Lesotho having done more help than harm to it's cultural legacy. I hope that by teaching my girls self-confidence and to think independently, they are learning to forge their OWN ideas about what it means to be a strong and liberated women- even if those ideas often conflict with my own. That by giving all my students the skills to go forth and be lawyers, doctors, and engineers, they will return to their country and lead it for themselves. That through my book project and friendships, I will spend more time listening than I do talking. That by showing my colleagues the honest truth of America, rather than allowing them to keep it on a pedestal as the "nation without flaws," they will understand that there is no secret path that leads to wealth and power... It's a future they can and should forge for themselves, according to their own desires for their country.
Because only one thing is certain in this day and age... Development will happen. I only hope that, as it does, the Basotho people will be the ones independently and confidently leading the way for this small, but incredibly unique and culturally-valuable society.
With Love from Lesotho... -Mary E.
When you look in your closet...
When you think of JCPenny's, think of a sea of rainbow colored umbrellas on a dusty dirt road in Maputsoe... Imagine the grey, tin-roofed factory, smoke-stacks looming high overhead. Watch the sweaty bodies, clad in brightly colored moshoeshoe and beautiful African print cloth, escape into the afternoon sunlight. They overwhelm with chatter; a roar of voices, jubilant after release. Now you see the area transform... An idealistic, bustling African market not 10 meters away from the imposing shadow of sweltering warehouses. Women haggle over used clothes, piled unceremoniously on ripped tarps. Chicken feet roast on open flame grills. Laughter. The blare of a taxi horn. A hot, arid wind. People disperse in all directions, back into the throngs of Basotho life.
When you wear Levi-Strauss, think of an over-stuffed bus transporting villagers home... From the mindless labor of a mechanical factory to the peaceful tranquility of a tiny mountain village. From the epitome of globalization to the peace and seclusion of a tiny, mud-walled rondaval in the Maluti mountains. Imagine the hands your favorite blue jeans started in... The Mosotho woman who could never afford to wear them, but who's family will eat papa and morroho tonight because you can.
When you think of Walmart, try to conceptualize the multi-national corporation. The power and money that links our countries. Think of interdependence... A Basotho labor force simultaneously exploited and empowered. People made richer, while being irreparably chained to poverty. Think of inequality and opportunity. Intimately linked; impossibly complex. Brand-name shoes for a full belly. Cheap clothing for a child's education.
When you look in your closet... Think of Lesotho.
With Love from Lesotho.... Mary E.
When you wear Levi-Strauss, think of an over-stuffed bus transporting villagers home... From the mindless labor of a mechanical factory to the peaceful tranquility of a tiny mountain village. From the epitome of globalization to the peace and seclusion of a tiny, mud-walled rondaval in the Maluti mountains. Imagine the hands your favorite blue jeans started in... The Mosotho woman who could never afford to wear them, but who's family will eat papa and morroho tonight because you can.
When you think of Walmart, try to conceptualize the multi-national corporation. The power and money that links our countries. Think of interdependence... A Basotho labor force simultaneously exploited and empowered. People made richer, while being irreparably chained to poverty. Think of inequality and opportunity. Intimately linked; impossibly complex. Brand-name shoes for a full belly. Cheap clothing for a child's education.
When you look in your closet... Think of Lesotho.
With Love from Lesotho.... Mary E.
2013 Morija Cultural Festival!
The week of Spring Break, during the first week of October, also happened to conveniently coincide with the Annual Morija Cultural Festival! And since Zoe and I were staying with Makabelo and her family in the village of Matsieng, about a 15 minute drive away from Morija, we took full advantage! It turned out to be a great opportunity to get together with some amazing PCV friends, view Basotho arts and crafts, and enjoy traditional Basotho cultural dances and song!
Lovely PCV Ladies! Hair washed, legs shaved, clothes clean, no bulky backpacks… We almost look like we could be tourists! HA!
(From L to R): Jiggetts, Zoe, Me, and Rachel
We spent the afternoon exploring craft vendo
Shopping is a very dangerous pastime of female PCVS…
So many beautiful crafts; so little money! Ha!
One of our PCV friends, Jiggetts, had set up a booth to sell handmade jewelry and crafts to help raise money for a community project to put a well at her school! We were all too happy to come keep her company and shop a little!
We also got the chance to see some cool activities and events! This was the toy car race! Village kids across Lesotho are shockingly skilled at making these toy cars out of old clothes hangers and tin cans! It was very cool that some got to show off their ingenuity and engineering skills at this competition!
At the end of the week, Rich (Makabelo’s husband) graciously offered to stay home with the kids, so we could have a rare and coveted “Girls Night Out” to attend the annual “Music of Southern Africa” concert! The music selection ranged from classic Basotho famu (ie. Not my favorite! Ha!) and gospel to jazz and hip-hop! We were joined by a bunch of other PCVs, and had a blast dancing til 3am in the morning!
With Love from Lesotho… –Mary E.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
