Village Life in Lesotho

As I venture on this topic, I'm keenly aware there are experts in Lesotho - Kaybee, Lineo, Lipalesa, and Sebitsa - my nieces and nephew, who know far more than I ever will and who may be reading my blog.  So, let's rephrase: these are the observations of someone who grew up in a suburb of Boston on the beauty of Lesotho's rural life.

We have gotten into the habit of dividing the world into developed and developing nations, implying that becoming developed is the goal of developing nations.  But this was not my impression after living in Lesotho, my second home, for nine years.

My wife, Qenehelo, grew up in the small village of Tsoe'ng.  As a young girl, she fetched water by walking a fair distance downhill to a spring, filling a large bucket with water, and carrying it back on her head.  During dry seasons she had to get to the spring before dawn because the spring dried up early.   She fetched cow dung from the fields and brush from the mountain for cooking.  So meals were cooked outdoors and water had to be used economically.

Most of the dwellings were mud huts (rondavels) with thatched roofs.    Qenehelo's family had a round house for cooking and a rectangular house for sleeping. There was no electricity.  At the top of a hill was a large building (mud walls and corrugated iron roof) which served as a school room during the week, a church on Sunday mornings, and a concert hall on Sunday afternoons.

Outside the houses chickens clucked about and in the kraals cows, sheep, and pigs mulled around.

Because the houses were small, people left their doors open all day and visiting neighbors was the main way of spending the day.   The contrast with my current neighborhood, where we speak pleasantries across the street and close our doors is striking.  Qenehelo's mother, 'Matiisetso, one of the kindest, most generous people I have known, was a wonderful example of neighborliness.   When she was cooking, village people might loiter about the door.  'Matiisetso would always bring them a plate of food.  Once a neighbor came saying she has no money for her daughter's school uniform; 'Matiiesetso without hesitation went to her teapot where she saved money for sugar, tea, and the like, and handed all her money to her neighbor.

At risk of over romanticizing, the village seemed like a family of two hundred people.  At weddings of village girls, everybody joined in the procession to share the joy; at funerals the whole village joined a procession to the church and then to the burial site to honor the person's life and to see he or she was buried with dignity.   After the funeral, everybody went to the home of the deceased, first to wash their hands (removing death), and then to join in a feast.

Even the names by which others are addressed reflect the sense of family: a woman is called "'Mme" (mother), a man is called "Ntate" (father), a girl is addressed as "ausi" (sister) and a boy a "abuti" (brother).   These names are for everybody, not just members of one's family.

I don't want to imply that there wasn't both good and evil in Lesotho.   There was.   But the societal norms favored sharing, neighborliness, and a sense of community.  The heart and soul of life in Lesotho lay in the villages, where most people live, where neighbors look after neighbors.