Loss of Light

I hear the laughter of little boys outside my door. Putting down my book, I go to the open door and find four boys between three and six. They are all carrying sticks. Three are laughing at the one who has just nabbed a peach out of one of the peach trees on my lot.

Culturally, I know that he should have asked before coming into the yard and taking peaches. But, this is my first weekend in my new village and admonishing small children is not the first impression I want to make. Instead, I great the boys and ask them what’s up.

The continue to giggle and start moving towards the road. When it is clear they are not going to speak Sesotho with me and they are moving on, I head back inside.

Twenty minutes later, I pop out again, this time to retrieve my solar lights. I had hidden them in the tall grass two feet from my open window to charge them up. It is Sunday and I do not anticipate being able to charge them again until Saturday as my new job will have me working a forty-hour week at an office.

Instead of three Luci lights, I find only one half eaten peach.

My heart stops. I immediately know what has happened and even know who did it. But I do not want it to be true.

Gender: My role and work

This is the second post on a mini-series about gender in Lesotho. While it can be read as a stand alone post, it is best read following Gender: An Intro.

Finding my own role as an American woman in this world has been interesting. In my mid-thirties, I am at an age where culturally men may still be single, but women are married and reproducing. When people learn I am unmarried, they often ask how many children I have, as it is beyond comprehension that I am not at the very least being a mother at my age.

I could push this wheelbarrow with my new gas tank, but
accepting help-even from ten year old brothers-is culture.

I like to do things for myself, however, when I left Pre-Service Training, I recognized that to accomplish any work in my community, I would need to integrate. If I constantly fight to do everything for myself, that makes integration harder, so I have tried to balance my fierce self-reliance with accepting help.

When I show up at an event, I am relegated to a chair, not encouraged to jump in on cooking, serving, or washing dishes. But, my chair is not placed with the men. So, I sit with either a few grandmothers or teenage girls, being served by the women because integrated or not, I am still a guest.

Women typically do not drink beer. If they drink, it is sweet wines and ciders. I once told a female friend that I prefer beer and was told, "Oh no, you must drink like a lady."


I have tried throughout my service to open people's eyes to the gender stereotypes here in Lesotho and to challenge them to consider that women or men can do all things. Early in my service, I became a member and the eventual co-chair of Gender Equality Lesotho [GEL], a Peace Corps Committee focusing on gender equality.

Through my role with GEL, I have encouraged other volunteers to work with gender in their projects and classes. Whether it celebrating international days connected to gender like International Men's Day, International Women's Day, and the annual 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence or hosting gender related youth activities like clubs and camps, there is a huge amount that can be done to educate on gender and help bridge the gaps in the treatment of men and women in Lesotho and around the world.

Co-directing Camp GLOW last year was a highlight in my own gender work in Lesotho. It provided not only the opportunity to help 190 young women feel empowered to and deserving of achieving their goals, but provided a conversation starter about gender for countless conversations in the months preceding and following the camp. Similarly, helping with my friend Yolanda's Camp BRO meant I had a chance to interact with fifty young men and to show that breaking gender barriers is about more than just women.


Just over a year ago, Peace Corps and First Lady Michelle Obama announced a partnership program called Let Girls Learn. The goal of this impressive initiative is to decrease the obstacles and challenges young women face in completing their education and become positive, productive members of their society. In its first year, Let Girls Learn was introduced in 13 Peace Corps countries around the world.

To raise public awareness for Let Girls Learn, the #62MillionGirls campaign was launched and even included a billboard in Times Square. People from around the world-celebrities to school girls in rural villages participated-by uploading their photo. The goal is to achieve 62 million photos to represent the 62 million girls worldwide that do not have access to education.

I followed the introduction of Let Girls Learn closely, while celebrating that there are still many barriers for women, but school-based education is not one of them. Then, Let Girls Learn announced that in its second year it would more than double its reach. With twenty-three countries added, Lesotho made the list! My understanding is that Lesotho was considered despite its high prevalence of young women in school because those same young women face an HIV infection rate of 40%. No one else in the country is more at risk of contracting HIV.

Two months ago, we learned that Peace Corps would be hosting a regional Let Girls Learn Summit for a representatives from each country to participate in. After applying, I was chosen as one of the two PCVs to attend our summit! I cannot wait to share the exciting things we discuss and learn this week with my fellow PCVs, Basotho, and you!

Gender: An Intro

Wherever I live, I seem to struggle with gender roles. I hate that I the idea of fitting into a box, of being cast in a mold and therefore being expected to behave in certain ways. Despite this, I fit many classic American gender stereotypes for women: I cook, I craft, I watch rom-coms, I nurture.

Wearing men's shorts and a men's t-shirt, I happily
toil away pouring cement for a day in the Domincan
Republic. I was the only person who poured the entire
time. Looking back, perhaps I felt I had something
to prove? Regardless, it was backbreaking work and
really fun!

I have tried to break out of the American gender expectations. I went years without owning or wearing pink...then I realized I look pretty good in pink. I went years buying only men's pants. It turns out, a woman's cut actually fits my generous hips more comfortably. I chose activities and careers that required physical activity-proving to myself and others that women are capable of physical challenges and manual labor. I loved it and the camaraderie I found with the men and especially the many women I worked with.

Over time, I realized that trying to get out of the box was an unsuccessful fight. At some point, my quiet, passive aggressive fight against genderization (hello, pink Legos? Really, come on!) meant I was doing exactly what I was trying to fight against. I was putting myself into a box to prove I could not be put into a different box. I was denying things that make up my personality while not actually demonstrating anything profound.

I stopped fighting the things about myself that fit American stereotypes and simply accepted that I am who I am. Parts of me are stereo-typically American woman. And, parts of me are stereo-typically American male. And that is fine. I do not need to change, the stereotypes do.


Then, I moved to Lesotho. 

In Lesotho, gender is even more defining than it is in America. There are male responsibilities and female responsibilities. Women cook, clean the house and yard, take care of the children, do the laundry, serve the men, fetch the water, fetch smaller sticks for cooking, weed the crops, tend the home gardens, and the like. Men take care of the animals, plant and harvest the crops, cut the trees, build the homes, and other larger tasks. While most Basotho can do anything from both lists, if someone of the appropriate gender is available to do it, doing a task that belongs to the other gender is unlikely.

The gender expectations do not stop with chores and work. Traditionally, men wear pants and women wear skirts (although in younger generations this is not seen). When a woman marries, she transitions from wearing short skirts to wearing long skirts that cover the knees. A small blanket is added around the waist and her head is covered with a hat or scarf when she leaves home. When women wear a kobo (blanket), it is pinned in the front. For men, it is tied or pinned on the side.

Women in my community sit
on the upper side of the pitso ground,
next to the Chief's office

Men sit across from the women,
alongside the Chief's fields and
corrals.

Men and women sit separately at community events. A man must stand and remove his hat to address the group. A woman may sit or stand and should keep her head covered while addressing the community. Even when men are present in smaller numbers, they generally speak more than the women.

Bo-Ntate sitting together enjoying joala at a party. The women
are around the back of the house preparing food together.

When women arrive at a party, they immediately report to the cooking area and begin helping with preparing or serving food. The men gather together-often near where the animal(s) were slaughtered or where the joala (sorghum homebrew) and wait for the women to bring things to them.

Although women's secondary and post-secondary education rates are higher, men are still employed in the professional sector at a higher rate. Additionally women are far more likely to contract HIV then men due to both physiology and culture. This aspect of the culture is explained well in the phrase: Monna ke mokopu o oa namalla which translates to men are pumpkin and should go abroad or spread out. Over time Masali ke cabbage o oa ipapa or women are cabbage and should stay home has been added to the phrase. While it may have begun more literally referring to the idea that women should tend the home while men should go out to tend the animals, hunt, and deal with warfare, today it is often used when justifying the idea of men having multiple partners.

Click through to Gender: My Work, the next installment on this mini-series on Gender in Lesotho

Buh-Bye Ausi Thato!

Hidden from the sun by my umbrella, sweat is pouring off me as my face beams brighter than Rudolph’s red nose. It is hotter than I expected today and with no wind to offset the high temperature, I can only grumble as I hike up the hill to get home.

Marabeng, an area of the village one hill over from my own, comes into a view. Suddenly, the hills are alive with the sound of...a chorus of children screaming my name repeatedly.

“Ausi Thato!” “Ausi Thato” “Ausi Thato” “Ausi Thato!” “Ausi Thato” “Ausi Thato” “Ausi Thato!” “Ausi Thato” “Ausi Thato” “Ausi Thato!” “Ausi Thato” “Ausi Thato”

Despite being nearly 300 meters away, the children of Marabeng have successfully identified my white skin and unique umbrella. As their two word refrain continues to repeat and echo itself, I cannot help but laugh and smile. Too hot and tired to yell across the donga to them, I extend my arm out in an exaggerated wave. 

Although not take on the same day, this selfie was taken on
the same path. In the background, the first few houses of
Marabeng are visible, giving context to the excellent
vision of Basotho toddlers when identifying Ausi Thato.

Immediately, the choir begins the second verse of their symphony; a round with my name overlapped by “Buh-bye!” It continues to repeat for over five minutes as I occasionally wave, continue to chuckle, and eventually work my way out of sight. Even then, I can still here one child repeat, “Buh-bye Ausi Thato! Buh-bye!”

 When I was in PST or Pre-Service Training, the chorus of “Buh-bye” drove me absolutely nuts. I would approach a group of children and greet them with the Sesotho version of hello. They in turn would jump up and down with glee, waving and shouting “Buh-bye!” It took less time to realize that the children did not know they were dismissing me than it did to adapt to the unusual wording.

After I moved to my village, I made it my personal mission to convert the children of my community so that I would get hellos instead of goodbyes as I approached. Despite multiple explanations in practiced Sesotho, the young children of the village would still come running up waving and shouting “Buh-bye Ausi Thato!! Buh Bye!”

After a few months of confusion, I asked Ausi Nthati, a nine year old girl, what the Sesotho verb for waving was. As our conversation was strictly in Sesotho, I actually asked “What is this?” while waving. She excitedly waved back to me and said “Buh-bye!”

I was afraid she did not understand, so I confirmed that to actually wave was to buh-bye. And with her agreement, the chorus of the children throughout Lesotho made more sense to me. With no other word for waving, a decidedly Western gesture brought here sometime in the last two hundred years, everyone simply refers to it as buh-bye. Since the Sesotho version of saying goodbye is either sala hantle (stay well) or tsamaea hantle (go well), when Basotho bid adieu in English, they use the literal translations of the Sesotho phrases. The word goodbye is not utilized.

Children from the younger classes come running out to greet
me when I approach or leave the local school.

And so, after gaining perspective, I have gotten off my goodbye soapbox. Instead of being annoyed at being dismissed or amused by a language oddity, I instead relish that the young children of the village are so eager to get my attention. When I walk by them as they play, attend pre-school, or help out at home, someone always starts the same chorus and is then immediately accompanied by every other child near them. It is sung with such youthful enthusiasm and cherubic voice that it always makes me smile. If we are close enough for conversation, I will stop and chat briefly with the children. Otherwise, I will wave and greet them.

Sometimes, I even forget my English degree and find myself shouting back “Buh-bye bana!” (bana means children) as I approach them.