Mosadi wa se-Afrika (African Woman)

Celine Dion’s voice emanated from the stereo system in the large meeting hall. Again. Phaketse was sitting next to me, so I leaned over to ask her, “Why do Batswana like Celine Dion so much?”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. With a dramatic smile as she flipped both hands over the top knee of her crossed legs, she said “but I just love her voice.”

“I like her voice too, but do they have to keep playing the same song?”

“I saw an interview with Celine once.” Phaketse’s change in poise and facial expression told me she was about to choose her words carefully and try to speak in the clearest English she could muster. “She was raised Catholic. Her mother is Catholic. When she fell pregnant with Celine, it was a surprise pregnancy, and she wanted to have an abortion.”

Great, I thought, where is this going? Why am I a polemic magnet? And why does everyone here say “fall” pregnant? How does someone “fall” pregnant? Did she trip and fall on someone’s hard-on and *poof* conception?

Phaketse continued, “Because of her religious beliefs, she decided not to have an abortion, and Celine was born. That’s why Celine is anti-abortion.”

Without missing a beat, I retorted, “I was conceived because the condom broke. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in safer sex.” Truth be told, my parents ran out of spermicide, but the condom analogy seemed more appropriate.

She got that habitual flustered look of speechlessness on her face, and as good timing would have it, the event we were attending together had just begun, ending our conversation that never continued.

The issue of abortion is seen from a completely different perspective here. It’s not about the right for a woman to choose what to do with her body, but it’s about the right for a woman to have babies. This comes out of the renowned 1995 Beijing Women’s Conference and China’s history with abortion. When the one-child family policy came into effect, many women were forced to have abortions if they “fell” pregnant with another child. From that point of view, it’s easy to see how one can see the issue as the “right to have babies.”

The problem, however, is it paints the picture that women are baby-making machines. Here in Botswana, a country with a population of only 1.7 million, the birthrate has been declining. Instead of seeing the positive side of this news, that perhaps people are sticking to fewer sexual partners and using condoms more frequently, the president spoke about it last year by encouraging women to have more babies, both treating women as objects and encouraging people to have unprotected sex in a country with the highest prevalence of HIV in the world.

During our first Peace Corps training, someone from BOFWA (Botswana Family Welfare Association) came to speak to the NGO volunteers, and the issue of abortion came up. They told us that abortion is not legal in Botswana, but if women come to them requesting abortion services, they provide counseling and refer them to a clinic across the border in South Africa where they can seek abortion services if they choose that route.

(NOTE: BOFWA is funded by the International Planned Parenthood Federation and essentially a Planned Parenthood clinic disguised by a local name. i.e. Brilliant.)

During their presentation, one of our male language trainers spoke up and asked, “But the president tells us that the birth rate in Botswana is declining. We shouldn’t be having abortions.”

Abortion is an ugly process, mostly psychologically. No pregnant woman wakes up on a Saturday morning and thinks, “Hmmm, what am I going to do today? I think I’ll have an abortion! That sounds like fun!” and then marches in a parade down to the clinic. No one in their right mind is “pro-abortion.” It’s not a delightful process to have to consider or go through. Women should simply have a right to choose what to do with their bodies, a right to choose when they can have babies at a time when or if they know they can and want to be mothers, and a right to have services that handle an unpleasant process safely. Whether it’s in China, sub-Saharan Africa, or the West, it’s the basic right every woman should have, the right to choose. It’s not pro-abortion. It’s pro-choice.

I work at a “women’s rights” organization here in Botswana. It’s a far cry from the coalition work I used to do with Planned Parenthood in the States, and my co-workers are nothing like my outspoken feminist friends, but so much of what I was taught in women’s studies classes during college still applies. I’ve learned WAR sees women’s rights with much more tapered and opaque vision. Uneasiness about abortion is only a part of that image. Many places in the country still insist that women shouldn’t be allowed to wear pants, especially at special events or when attending kgotla meetings (customary court with some similarity to the operations of a city hall). Shockingly enough, that debate happens within my office.

For two different events that our staff was to attend, one a kgotla meeting, and the other a celebration of International Women’s Day, it was suggested by a female staff member that all the women should wear skirts. For the latter event, I couldn’t comprehend the irony, and more so that most people didn’t see a problem. Thankfully, each time this happened, one of the other women challenged the suggestion.

“How can we advocate for women and then insist that we can’t wear what we want? That’s absurd. If men can wear pants, so can we.” Sonya piped up.

“That’s the reality,” our Coordinator said. “If we’re going to an official event, we have to wear skirts. It’s just the way it is. How can you expect men to listen to us if we don’t respect the cultural traditions?”

Tradition also says that if a woman’s husband dies she is supposed to marry the brother, that marital rape doesn’t exist because a woman is property that the husband has purchased from her family, and that women are not allowed to make any decisions about sex including whether or not a condom is used. Progress is usually about breaking tradition. Over time, as individuals learn the possibilities of empowerment, freedom and individual choice, things have to change out of respect and compassion for those human beings. That’s what equality is.

The people at WAR fight on behalf of Batswana women in many contexts: fighting the legalities of marital rape, providing counseling services and a safe house for abused women and children, educating adolescents about gender-based violence, and implementing a proper rape protocol at police stations and hospitals. So why is wearing skirts, something so simple, yet so symbolic, an issue? I suppose in the practice of picking and choosing one’s battles, there are too many other urgent issues in women’s lives for which to advocate.

At an economic empowerment workshop that WAR put on for several of its clients, I met Tsholofelo, and learned that choosing between pants and skirts is the least of her worries. Throughout the morning, sitting next to her, I was struck by her big smile and the confidence that radiated from her being. We started chatting over the tea break.

“After the last time my husband raped me, my brothers beat me up. They were in the house next to us, and when they heard my screams for help, they were angry that I woke them in the middle of the night. That’s when I fled. I took my two kids and went to the other side of the country,” she said to me, matter-of-factly, as if she’s told this story a hundred times, and perhaps she was taught how important it was to talk about what happened.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through such a horrible experience, and I’m impressed by the optimism and faith I see in you today,” I was still in partial disbelief that she blurted this story out to the white man sitting next to her right after we met.

She went on, “I lived as a destitute in Kasane for a few weeks and couldn’t find a place to stay. That’s when I came to Maun, and I’ve been here ever since.”

The nature of her story isn’t entirely uncommon, but it still boggles my mind. In a place like Botswana, the anomaly of Africa with no history of war, a peaceful democracy with little conflict, how can there be so much violence in people’s homes? It’s because they bottle up all of their emotions. Batswana can be very agreeable and passive-aggressive. They would rather pretend to agree or suppress their anger than make a fuss. With few hobbies, activities or community happenings, where, when and how do they release all of this repressed emotion?

At home. They hide it in public, which is what makes Botswana such a peaceful place, and many, particularly men who are socialized not to let their emotions show, let it out in their houses. All of this repressed emotion manifests in yelling, beating, rape, verbal assault on their families, the ones with whom they share a home and claim to love.

I understand that my working environment may give me some sort of bias. From my perspective it may seem like everyone’s abused. But these stories are ubiquitous. I don’t just hear them at work. I hear them from other volunteers, from teachers, from neighbors, a wide variety of people. Furthermore, a recent research says that half of the women in my district have been raped, and over 62% are survivors of domestic violence.

For that reason, I don’t think I’m biased, but I certainly have an over-exposure to the stories, and I can’t help but draw parallels to many of my other observations here.

Several months ago, for example, when I got home from 2 weeks of vacation in Mozambique and Swaziland, not only was I welcomed by a tall field of grass that had popped up due to all of the wet season rain, but I was also greeted by 5 abandoned puppies.

I had no clue where they came from, and I wondered, where’s the mother? Maybe she’s out looking for food. Most dogs in Botswana are strays, but do these perhaps belong to someone? Batswana typically don’t like dogs and throw rocks at them to protect their livestock, so perhaps this was the only safe place they could find.

Over the next three days, every morning I would find the puppies pressed up against the wall on my front porch, and every day when I came home, they would be romping in front of my house, pouncing on grasshoppers and each other in my large jungle of a yard. Worried about their health, I started feeding them. There’s a “take-away” place near my office where I usually get lunch, and I was able to get leftovers from them at the end of each day. The pups ate ravenously for the next week, and then the mother finally showed up.

She was completely emaciated, the outline of all of her ribs showing. I watched as the 5 puppies ran to her energetically. Still hungry, out of instinct, each of them tried to grab on to her teats. The mother yelped as each one tried to latch on, and she eventually ran away, all dried up.

I thought, “This dog is trapped with no choices. She was raped by some male dog, got pregnant, had 5 babies, and has now starved herself trying to feed them while the father is probably sitting around somewhere else just getting fat and/or impregnating others. This dog needs to go to WAR for counseling! And to the social worker for a food basket!”

At least Botswana is a place where there are several resources available, and it’s certainly much better off than other countries around the world. In most of the middle east for example, women can’t even leave the house without a man’s permission, can’t press charges for crimes without a male witness who’s willing to testify, and aren’t able to register an NGO to advocate for women’s issues without fear of forced closure or bomb threats. They have a long way to go to reach any sense of women’s empowerment.

In Botswana, women are at least close to full equality under the law. There are female members of parliament, a few female dikgosi (chiefs), and the former chief justice of one of the high courts, recently retired Unity Dow, is a woman, a prolific author and a well-respected human rights advocate. In Botswana, there is hope, there are a growing number of strong role models for women and young girls, and the progress is slow, but visible.

However, it still comes down to choices. In a sparsely populated country with few employment opportunities, a woman in an abusive situation is often forced to choose between two difficult options: 1) Stay in an abusive relationship and suffer through the psychological damage to herself and her children to maintain financial security or 2) Do the hard work to leave everything familiar to start over, which means finding a way to support herself and her kids while going to school or starting her own business to generate some income.

At our most recent economic empowerment workshop, a selection of WAR’s clients wanted some basic information on how to start their own business. Starting a business is more than just a dream; it’s generating income, building self-esteem, accomplishment, independence, empowerment and ultimately, freedom.

The facilitator had the women brainstorm a list of basic needs and then prioritized the top two as shelter and food. In a discussion about wants and needs, he talked about the food one needs to survive vs. the new clothes that would be nice to have. He went on to talk about budgeting and dependents. Several of these women are financially responsible for kids and other extended family members, which add to the financial burden.

It was one of those moments where I was reminded of my privilege. I have no kids, no other dependents, and even though all of my current personal belongings fit inside two large suitcases, I feel like I have too many clothes. Months ago, I started wearing the same five shirts to the office every week since I noticed that’s the norm here, and having more clothes is another sign of wealth.

When you start from scratch, you don’t have many choices beyond doing what you need to do to survive. It takes a lot of courage for many women to leave an abusive relationship to do that.

Tradition tells women to find a man to support them. Customarily, women live with their families until the right man comes along who has saved up enough cattle for dowry. With that expectation and fantasy, women are taught not to think or be independent but to wait for a man to support them, and if or when they find him, commit to him, no matter what.

Another resource WAR provides is a Safe House, a temporary, transitional home for abused women and children who are desperate to get out of an violent situation but don’t know where to start. The Safe House is fairly new, and over the past few months, I’ve been supporting the two women who work there. The facility is well-funded, but I spent most of my time helping them to build basic infrastructure, writing policies, conditions for clients, developing programming, etc.

Working at the Shelter is one of the bigger projects I work on to help WAR better support its clients, but it’s often the day-to-day things, those little ways that I help encourage women in the office that gives me doses of joy. A great example is a stereotypical Peace Corps moment I had with one of our new staff members, Mowetsi.

Mowetsi is rather timid and soft-spoken, as far too many Batswana women are, and she has never touched a keyboard in her life, until she started working at WAR. Quite often, she would come into my office (shared by 2 others and a desktop computer) and ask someone to type a document for her.

The third time she did this, I said “Mowetsi, no one is typing for you today. You’re going to type this one by yourself.”

“But I don’t know how to type,” she said, as if she had no other choice but to depend on others to type for her.

“Mowetsi, you’re smart and you can read, let me help you do this,” I said as I sat her in front of the desktop computer and pulled up a chair next to her.

Using her two pointer fingers to type a short agenda for a meeting, she typed her own document in about an hour. When she was finished, I taught her where and what to click so she could print. At that moment, she created something, something she didn’t know she was even capable of. She watched her own finger hit a button that printed a document that she had typed herself. She was jumping up and down screaming with excitement and hugging me, “Thank you, Kabo! Thank you!”

With loads of patience, I got her through it, and now she types everything on her own. I appreciate those moments. And I have to admit, in the back of my mind sometimes, I think “I left the States so I could teach someone how to type and print?” But it’s so much deeper than that. It’s not about teaching Mowetsi how to use a computer. It’s about teaching a woman that she’s intelligent and capable of doing something on her own without dependence on others.

A few weeks before International Women’s Day, celebrated on March 8th every year, Fortune, from our education department, suggested that we sing a song together as a staff at the commemoration event in Maun. One of our co-workers wrote a song with great lyrics about a strong African woman, and a week before the event, we started rehearsing the song in four part harmonies in the office every day.

At first it was disastrous. The song sounded horrible, no one was taking leadership on it, and no one seemed to care that we were going to perform in front of hundreds of people in just a few days. Every morning, I hear my co-workers sing the most beautiful Setswana songs with intricate harmonies, so part of me wondered why a song was written with which so many seem to be struggling instead of singing something familiar. However, it was one of those situations where I didn’t ask questions or challenge any of the ideas about how this was going to come together. I was impressed by their initiative, commitment and creativity, so I just sat back did everything I was asked to do and let things unfold without my influence.

Eventually, Fortune, who is usually reserved and aloof, stepped up and took charge. Surprisingly, he was able to sing all four parts from soprano to bass, exposed a huge talent, and conducted us as a choir over the next couple of days.

The events for International Women’s Day were held in a part of Maun called Big Tree. It’s been a popular meeting place for decades, and receives it’s moniker from a gargantuan tree with a trunk that is almost as big as my house. In typical Batswana fashion, the event started late, but despite the complaints of a couple of my co-workers who claimed the event was poorly organized, I thought everything was put together extraordinarily well.

There was a large tent well-decorated with large pieces of fabric in the Botswana colors of black, white and blue, and packed with almost 400 people. There were strong speakers from a variety of NGOs that advocate for women’s issues from around the country and dance performances from local theatre groups and primary schools. One of the WAR staff members, Kgotso, was the MC for the day, did a fantastic job and caught up on time to get back on schedule.

We sang after our Coordinator spoke, and I think we gave a nice performance. We received much applause, and we were all happy about how far we came together as a team that week. What I was most struck by, though, were the comments from some of my co-workers afterwards.

“Kabo, I’ve been wanting to tell you, that I’m so impressed by you this week,” Tshepo said to me.

“Why’s that?” I asked, honestly having no clue what she was talking about.

“You’ve had such a positive attitude all week, learning this song, and it’s not even in a language you know very well. It’s so motivating when people like you participate with us,” she said to me with the utmost sincerity.

I think by “people like you,” she meant “the white guy” singing about strong African women. Kgotso came up to me independently the next day and said something similar. I forget how those little things, being a part of the group, joining in, learning the language and just having a positive attitude can have an effect on others. It’s not always about the work and the struggles over political ideology. Sometimes, just pushing aside my skepticism to fully participate is enough. Too often, I get caught up in the big picture and forget how important the little things are.

That Which Shall Not Be Named (Part 3): Botswana within the Closet

There were posters hanging all over the walls. The most salient one depicted a smiling Mother holding her toddler son. The message, in bold letters, read “Homosexuality is not a choice.” Another poster showed a group of around 30 different people embracing in one large group hug, in a background of rainbow colors: “Celebrate sexual diversity.”

For a moment, I felt like I had stepped out of Botswana, but I was still in this African country. I had just walked through the doors of an NGO that, up until these few days of meetings, I barely knew. I was aware that they advocated for an array of human rights issues, but I never expected the display of various pamphlets spread out on the table in the reception area describing the gamut of LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) issues.

Shortly after I arrived at Site, back in June, I received an email from a gay male PCV in Lesotho who found me via the Facebook Peace Corps network. He told me about a secondary project he started with gay men and health workers. When he mentioned how much work was happening in Botswana on these issues, and how this country was much further along than his was, I thought he must be severely confused.

I knew I hadn’t been here very long, but that sense of progress was not my impression at all, even after living in my village for a full 8 months. Through my days of meetings with the aforementioned NGO, I realized his impressions were most likely based on knowledge of work happening in Gabs, the capitol. My village is far away, on the other end of the country, so it’s a different world, quite removed from the urban center of Botswana.

I was thrilled to make these unexpected discoveries, but how did this all happen? It’s ironic that a part of our work as Peace Corps Volunteers doing HIV education is to encourage people to talk more openly about sex and relationships yet I am encouraged to do the opposite with my own life in order to serve successfully here.

Legally speaking, it is not against the law to be gay here; it is only illegal for two consenting adults of the same gender to have sex, to make love, to share in a physical connection and moments of pleasure that most human beings enjoy and yearn for. Psychologically speaking, it certainly sounds like it’s illegal to be gay. This would be akin to having a law that forbids people to sing or to play a musical instrument, yet claiming it’s not illegal to be a musician. You can be a musician. You just can’t create music.

Through the counterpart of another PCV, I met the “diva entourage” in my village. I’ve learned that “diva” is a popular underground pseudonym for gay men and female allies in Botswana, at least with the network I’ve tapped into. Everyone even has a nickname, like some obscure high school cult. There’s mother diva, daddy diva, granny diva, divinity diva, dependable diva, the dodging diva, and the list goes on. There was no initiation ritual, but I’ve just recently acquired my diva name, against my will: the poaching diva. I don’t exactly understand why, and I’m still not sure if I like it. At any rate, I was happy to meet Max, Dimpho and Lorato, committed members of the diva entourage.

I traveled with these divas to spend a weekend in another village celebrating a fellow volunteer’s birthday. As we spoke during the journey, in the back of a covered pickup truck passing endless fields of acacia trees, there was no talk of being gay, dating, sex, or anything related to it. We just had casual conversation, all the while with the underlying assumption that we all knew about each other.

What I remember the most is that it was the first time people were asking me questions about myself, the first time I spoke with a group of Batswana who were digging below the surface. One of the ways that loneliness has been redefined for me in this country is that I sense little to no genuine curiosity about me as a person. Most people simply don’t ask me any questions besides, “O tswa kae?” as if the white person’s home country is all that matters to them.

About a month later, Lorato invited us to a “diva dinner” she was hosting. It was a small gathering: me, Lorato, Max, Dimpho and Chris, who’s recently received the moniker “honorary diva.” We had so much fun, chatting as we watched the sunset, eating a delicious meal and then playing Scrabble entirely in Setswana. I won, and I’m not sure how, given my limited language abilities.

It was a casual and simple evening, nothing out of the ordinary or extravagant, but, to be honest, it was the first time I’ve attended a gathering in my village where I actually had a good time. For some unbeknownst reason, I was able to relax. At any gathering I’ve attended in the past, I constantly felt on guard, making sure to follow all of the customs and assimilate to the culture. With the divas, I felt like I could simply be.

With LGBT people and allies, there often seems to be something that binds us together, something that is intangible and indescribable. It’s a subconscious phenomenon that’s somehow connected to our identity or marginalized status, and it creates a gravitational force that pulls us toward one another, especially in times of isolation.

One evening, I was out at a local bar/restaurant with a bunch of co-workers and PCVs from out of town. As I was about to leave, this tall, 20-something man came over and asked about me, using my English name. I know I’ve never met him before, so I wasn’t sure how he knew who I was. I’m also not accustomed to hearing a Motswana use my real name.

Most people here call me by my Setswana name, and I only use my English name with other PCVs and the divas. It’s part of how I keep these two complex branches of myself separate: psychologically maintaining the intricacies that make up who I am intact while trying to integrate into this strange and beautiful country without losing too much of my core identity. Those two parts of me are slowly merging like the confluence of two rivers originating from different lands; yet hearing a Motswana, especially one whom I didn’t know, use that name was startling.

“Yes… Have we met?” I replied, mildly confused.

“Dimpho told me about you. I’m Gothusang,” he said with a coy smile.

“Oh! Well, hello diva,” I responded, pleased to meet another member of the entourage.

In one of my first conversations with Dimpho, he told me about Gothusang, a friend of his who works for the police and has a boyfriend in another village. He wanted me to meet him sometime, and unexpectedly I just had. This village is far too small, and the gay network even more so.

Since it was getting late, and most of my friends were leaving, our conversation was very brief before we exchanged numbers and I left.

Later that night, however, he sent me an SMS, in typical, and drunken, Motswana shorthand, “I found you to be very charming. Sorry to say diz but I think I’v fallen in luv wit u.”

I almost couldn’t believe it. I just met the guy, and he has a boyfriend! I laughed out loud when I read it, but I have to admit, it felt nice to be hit on, despite the odd circumstances. It’s the first time any man has flirted with me since April. On one hand, it’s actually been nice to not have that type of attention. I have so often craved an escape from the objectifying gay “culture.” It’s been refreshing to have a break, but it’s equally nice to have been flirted with, regardless of my lack of reciprocation.

Later that month, I was attending a workshop run by a consultant with my NGO. He was hired to help us create some documented educational materials for us to use in our adolescent programming. Frank, originally from Canada, has lived in Botswana with his Motswana wife for over 20 years and has been doing consultancy work on a variety of issues from HIV to water management in developing countries all over the world. During our group introductions, it was the first time I mentioned “gay rights” as a part of my job history. It’s actually most of my work experience, but none of my co-workers know that. No one else in the group even flinched when I said the word “gay,” reminding me of my paranoia.

Over lunch that day, Frank told me about a project he’s working on with the human rights group in Botswana targeting MSM* and health workers. He told me they recently conducted some research on MSM in urban areas. The next step is to develop some educational materials to improve health and HIV services for this population.

(*MSM – Men who have Sex with Men – is a term used mostly in health work for a variety of reasons. The main one is that it recognizes that many men may have sex with other men, but do not necessarily consider themselves to be gay. This is especially important in many developing countries and sexually repressed cultures. Many do not consider their sexual encounters with other men in terms of a sexual identity or orientation.)

Frank is a smart and liberal guy, but gay and lesbian issues are somewhat new territory for him. He asked me if I could help with it. How could I possibly say no? I was ecstatic about the mere opportunity! This isn’t what I came to Africa for, I never expected I would get to do something of this nature here, but it incited so much zeal within me. Over the next few weeks, Frank and I emailed back and forth about the MSM project, and I began to feel so much more alive, as if I had forgotten how passionate I am about LGBT issues.

About a year ago, when I was involved with one last campaign project with my mentor, working as an Interim Field Director for a small LGBT civil rights group in the States, I was really struggling. I remember telling him that I cared so much about LGBT issues and the marriage movement, but I couldn’t push myself to do it anymore. I was in tears, over-stressed by the campaign and telling him I felt like some part of me had died. I had learnt and grown so much over those 4 years, with many successes and a lot of enthusiasm, but that type of work ultimately wasn’t right for me anymore. I gave everything I had and then pushed myself one last time.

Through my email exchanges with Frank, and several meetings over the next few months, I would learn that Frank had resurrected that part of me.

Early on in my conversations with him, I realized that we needed to break open the mold of what it means to do work on LGBT issues in the developing world. At this point, most countries have some type of organization that works on gay issues, as small as they may be, but very little has happened in this area. For Frank, I learned he needed some 101 education on the differences and connections betwixt sexual orientation and gender identity / expression.

Sitting at a large table on his back patio, we spread out the minimal MSM educational resources we could get our hands on from the developing worlds of India, Vietnam, Ghana, Senegal, Zimbabwe and South Africa.

“Here are some drawings they used to spark conversation about MSM issues in Senegal,” he said as he spread out some laminated sketches in front of me, “What do you think of these?”

The pictures were all situations in which a gay man might be laughed at, harassed, physically abused, kicked out of his home, etc. I starred at one photo of three men throwing rocks at a presumably gay man. The person suffering this violence was depicted as very effeminate, wearing a flowered shirt and carrying a purse. I showed this to Frank and asked, “Why is this person being harassed?”

He paused for a moment, “because he’s gay.”

I responded, “No. He’s not being harassed because of his sexual orientation but because of his gender expression. They’re not throwing rocks at him because he’s making out with some guy in the public square. They’re attacking him because he’s effeminate and carrying a purse.”

In Senegal, yes, I’m sure most men who dress like that might be gay, but the majority of gay men don’t look that way. Looking at these pictures, it also occurred to us, that the population we’re dealing with is really just the tip of the iceberg. For the gay folks who are out of the closet or at all visible in developing countries, most of them are probably like the guy in the picture and easy to point out. Culturally, the same photos wouldn’t work here anyway because many men in Botswana are effeminate, and it’s generally a non-violent place.

With Frank and I, this led into a conversation about all of the pieces around sexuality and gender that make up who we are. I took Frank through an exercise on Identity to illustrate the multifaceted pieces that most of us, even LGBT folks, don’t even think about. But to work on these issues in the developing world, where there is even less information, understanding these distinctions would be so important, especially with our “tip of the iceberg” populations. Every one of us is a complex matrix of sex, gender identity, sexual orientation, and gender expression, which is why LGBT communities are filled with so much diversity within themselves. We’re all uniquely different and don’t fit perfectly into any culturally specified box.

Once Frank finally understood this, he felt as if a giant light bulb had been turned on above his head, and suddenly everything he’s ever learned about LGBT issues made sense. Everything from transgender people to lesbian drag kings unexpectedly became crystal clear.

I told him, “These are the complex issues we need to address, and we have to make it simple enough for our target audiences to understand. Whether we’re educating health workers or the police, the simple message we need to get across is ‘We’re all different, in many ways, and it doesn’t matter how someone looks, who they have sex with, or how they express themselves. Just do your job to help and protect people.’”

As the work on the project was growing some legs, it came time that I needed to ask my counterpart in the office if I could leave for about a week for some meetings in Gabs. At first, I wasn’t sure how I would do this. I didn’t want to tell her that I was working on gay issues, but I knew I had to share enough information that she would both let me go and also not be surprised when the specificities of the project came back to her. It’s common for PCVs to take on secondary projects, but how could I convince her to let me leave the office for a week for something that wasn’t technically Peace Corps related and/or directly related to our organization’s work?

I wouldn’t necessarily lie to her, but often simply withholding the truth feels dishonest. I thought about how much I hate lying about any part of me or about issues I care about, issues in this culture which seem to be labeled “that which shall not be named.”

Another colleague, Tshepo, and I attended a meeting together a few weeks ago where the issue of homosexuality came up. The organization hosting the workshop was debating whether or not they should incorporate education and awareness about gay and lesbian people into their work. One woman spoke up and said, “We can’t do this! This thing… this thing… it will just grow and grow until everyone is gay! We just can’t teach people about this. We shouldn’t even talk about it. It’s immoral, and it’s wrong and it needs to stop.”

This is when Tshepo spoke up. I had never heard her speak on this topic, so I had no inkling of what side she would speak for or what was about to come out of her mouth. She said something I had never heard before, and I found it to be a good perspective. “Everybody prays differently. Some people pray with their arms folded, some with their head down, some kneeling, and some looking up. Gay people love differently, but it’s all the same.”

When I finally talked to my counterpart about the project, I decided to phrase it as “human rights work around HIV,” which was true, and I gave her a 5-minute spiel about why I should leave for these meetings. I know her well enough to be able to anticipate what all of her concerns and apprehensions might be about me leaving, so I worded my speech fastidiously. In the end, she simply said, “That sounds fine.”

Knowing how argumentative she can be and how adamant she is about me being in the office to help with a variety of projects, I was shocked. It said a lot about our relationship, how much she’s grown to trust me, and how much I’ve learned about her.

She has said some supportive things about gay issues in the past, so I know that I might actually be ok to tell her about the focus of the project. However, even if I did get to the point where I thought I might be comfortable enough to talk to her explicitly about the work, I would still never come out to her or others in my community. This is not only because I don’t want to take the risk of how it might affect my other work, but because I think it would do a disservice to the gay people here.

There are enough myths about homosexuality being a “white thing,” a cultural idea from the west that is invading African nations. A white guy coming out in Botswana certainly wouldn’t help that. The best I can do is educate others through this secondary project and try to empower the gay people whom I know to do something that will create change for their own lives here. I’ll be living in a more knowledgeable and supportive environment again after my service, but this is their life-long home.

A week before I left my village to go to Gabs, for our meetings, I decided to host a diva dinner of my own. Part of it was a bit of an experiment. I invited a few divas I know in my village plus Chris and Lorato. Karabo couldn’t make it, but Dimpho, Max and Gothusang all came, and they each brought another diva with them. All I said was that I was hosting a diva dinner. I didn’t explain what that meant, who was invited, or if they should bring friends. It tells me that an organic grassroots movement of gay men in this country forming small groups is possible and simple. If they could at least find a way to systematically get together and talk about issues of health and safety, that would be huge.

The guys here are incredibly repressed, and I still have yet to learn how deep the oppression runs and how it affects the psyche of gay people who grow up in this place. Even when it’s just gay guys, they don’t talk about other guys; they don’t talk about sex, dating, etc., none of it. One of the reasons HIV is so high here is no one even talks about sex. I’ll start trying to crack their shells over time.

We had so much fun though. These guys are the most effeminate bunch of queens one can imagine. I was playing my iTunes throughout the evening, and these divas kept requesting for me to play Madonna. There’s something about the genetic makeup of gay men that makes their auditory systems pine for the voice and dance beats of Madonna. It transcends culture.

My place was spotless after they left, and all of the dishes done with perfect precision. I asked them not to clean up, but they insisted. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized they actually scrubbed and cleaned my stovetop! I continue to appreciate these divas more and more.

A few days later, as I sat in the conference room in Gabs, I wondered what it would be like for the divas to be in this room and see all of the supportive messaging. As the meetings began, with 9 of us from several partnering groups, everyone was briefed on the project, and it turned out to be much more complex than I had originally thought.

10 minutes into our first meeting, I was already in need of some clarity. So, I asked Oneille, a transman leading the local LGBT group, “What’s the focus of this workbook we’re creating? Many developing countries focus on the health needs of MSM due to the high HIV prevalence, but it sounds like we’re looking at something much bigger.”

He responded so clearly and articulately that, “We want to include everything, transgender people, intersex issues, women, everyone, and we want to educate all different types of people, service providers, teachers, families and LGBTI folks themselves…”

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went to the meetings about this workbook. I know what I didn’t expect was to have a conversation with a diverse and well-informed group of people about a highly inclusive and multi-pronged LGBTI movement in Botswana.

The people with the fledgling LGBT group here are starting from such a great place, a stage in thinking that, in some ways, is farther ahead than some LGBT organizations in the States. From the very beginning, there was completely agreement, no argument whatsoever, that we should include transgender and intersex people in all of our materials, that we should be explicit about those issues, and fully incorporate it into the curriculum.

They truly understand the depths at which oppression due to gender expression and sexual orientation are inextricably linked. It was incredible. Many NGOs in the States are still telling certain subsets of the LGBT community that they need to wait, that we need to take it one issue and one type of person at a time, playing an unending game of identity politics and debating alphabet soups of acronyms.

In America, the gay rights movement was catapulted by the Stonewall riots, instigated by gender-bending drag queens and transwomen who were quickly pushed aside, for a movement led primarily by gay men. In Botswana, they’ve only been active for a couple of years, but they’re starting the movement inclusively from the inception, with an organization currently led by lesbians and transmen.

This work is bringing it home for me. It’s not fighting homophobia through marriage rights for those at the top of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. It’s working for the people terrified to come out of the closet in a country with few options or resources in every aspect of life. It makes me think of how I felt as a young teen in small-town, rural Pennsylvania. For the LGBT folks in Botswana though, it’s not just a rough phase of adolescence; it’s their entire lives.

Frank and I took some time to debrief our meetings before I went back to my village, digging through countless materials from other countries. We’re trying to pull the best of what’s been done in a variety of areas from issues of coming out, health worker protocols, code of conduct for police, safer sex education for MSM, etc., and editing all of it to make it specific to Setswana culture. Toward the end of our conversations we realized something extraordinary. We’re creating a comprehensive manual of educational resources on LGBT issues that doesn’t exist anywhere else on the continent.

When I got back to my village, Max picked me up from the bus rank. Sitting on my front porch, we talked for a bit about my time in Gabs. I mentioned how moved I was by the people I worked with and the movement that’s initiating on the other side of the nation. I told him about Oneille and what he said when he first met me: “What’s wrong with the gay people in your village? Everyone’s in the closet.” Max wasn’t sure what that meant.

“Are you out to your co-workers? The other teachers?” I asked, realizing we’ve never talked about this.

“Well, I’m not really sure what ‘out’ means. I haven’t announced it to all of them, but it wouldn’t matter to me if they knew I was gay.”

“Really?” I was genuinely surprised.

“Yes. And some of my students have asked me about it.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“I tell them the truth, and no one has ever made a big deal about it.”

I was reminded, yet again, that I still have a lot to learn about this place.

Courage Campaign

This fills me with hope.

Botshelo bo bontle. (Life is beautiful.)

In 2004, after an on-again, off-again relationship with the Task Force, I decided to move to Los Angeles and work for them full-time. At the time, it was both pursuing a dream, and also jumping into something I was very unsure about.

Knowing the internal struggle I was having, and the usual pattern of my emotions, one of my best friends, Cyndy, sent me this card:

On the inside, part of the message reads: “Keep the front of this in mind when you start to question whether you made the right choices. In the end you always do.”

I kept this card as a reminder, and it’s one of the few things hanging above my desk in the office. I’m reminded that the big decisions I make in life are ones that I’m not quite sure of, but I dive in because it feels right. Although I see myself as a highly rational and logical person, when it comes to big decisions, I go with what I feel, not necessarily with what I think. Therefore, I usually end up doing work I’m intensely passionate about, but there is often a lack of certainty clouding it.

4 years later, when I came to Botswana with the Peace Corps, I found myself in the same boat: following my heart, yet unsure of this big decision I made. I am again reminded that the world is far from perfect. It can seem dreary and chaotic, but there is beauty to be found everywhere.

Botswana, for example, is mostly a very dry country, a typical desert climate, but in a few places, it is bursting with life.

Thanks to some recent developments, I can upload and post a lot more pictures. When I first got to my site in June ’08, there were two ethernet cables in the office, and they were only in the front office. Now there are Ethernet cables everywhere, both front and back office buildings, and it's usually reliable. It’s like I’m watching the country develop right before my very eyes! Therefore, I’m backtracking a bit, and I’d like to share some of the natural beauty I’ve found here.

Below are photos from visits I took to two drastically different landscapes in Botswana. The first slideshow is from Kanye, in the southeast, where we had IST (In-Service Training), one of several trainings that Peace Corps hosts for us to support us in this work throughout our 2 years. Kanye has a gorge that called us to come play in it.

The second slideshow is from Shakawe, in the northwestern-most part of the country. I went there to pay a visit to the local GLOW Chapter with my counterpart and try to help them with some planning. Shakawe is just above the Okavango Delta, the world’s largest inland Delta, of which my village, Maun, is just below. To give some perspective on distance and travel time, Kanye is 12 hours south by bus. Shakawe is 6 hours north by bus.