Our Strategy

By Michael J. Jordan

From Africa, two of my interviewees, for the e-book: “Voices from the Mountains of Lesotho.”

BEIJING – As noted in the Our Project section, the stories our “Champions” produced serve a two-fold purpose: share their great “awakening” to the issue, to raise awareness; then, ideally, inspire behavioral-change, with a how-to guide demystifying the process.

However, as described in the Why “Champions”? section, I didn’t hatch this subtle communications strategy in China. For me, it originated high in the mountains of Southern Africa, while living in Lesotho.

As I adapted my skills as a Foreign Correspondent, to my meaningful advocacy in Health Communications, I also developed my own interviewing and storytelling method, which I dubbed “The Fork in the Road.”

In particular, this was the approach I took during my Consultancy for the American NGO, Management Sciences for Health, which asked me to illuminate their impact in Lesotho, by interviewing two dozen HIV Orphans, Vulnerable Children, and their “caregivers.” The stories I wrote – and the photos I shot – were then published online, in the e-book: Voices from the Mountains of Lesotho.

I later described, at length, my entire Fork in the Road methodology – applied to a real-life interview in Lesotho – on my website. But I re-publish below … if you’re curious!

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The “Fork in the Road,” on my website.

LESOTHO – Mabotle Tolooane and her husband love kids – and want more.

Here in their remote village, nestled high in the tiny African “Mountain Kingdom” of Lesotho, the ethnic-Basotho couple has three children already. They yearn for a fourth.

Tolooane worries, though. In a Lesotho that suffers from the second-highest rate of HIV infection in the world – a crippling 23% – she and her husband are both HIV-positive.

Their first two children were born healthy, when the couple were both HIV-negative. Tolooane’s husband then contracts HIV – outside the marriage, it seems. He brings it home, infects his wife, who transmits it to her unborn baby, their third. (For years, mother-to-child transmission has been a leading driver of Lesotho’s epidemic.)

With mother and father already downing daily doses of Anti-Retroviral Therapy to keep them alive, their newborn is condemned to consume ARTs the rest of her life, too.

Three years later, though, the couple mulls having a fourth child. Their options: deny themselves that joy, or produce another baby bound to a daily regimen of life-saving meds.

Moreover, as Tolooane tells me in her home, through an interpreter: “I thought I was going to die soon – and I didn’t want to leave young children behind.”

Then one day, there’s a knock at her door. “Village health workers” – trained by a local NGO, which was itself trained by the American NGO that has hired me here as a Communications Consultant – is gathering all the child-bearing-aged women in her village.

The health-workers present the women with a third option – one they’ve never heard of before: “If you become pregnant, come down to the nearest health clinic as early as possible, rather than deliver at home” – per the Basotho tradition. “Get yourself tested. If you’re HIV-positive, start the ARTs. The nurses will guide you through a healthy pregnancy.”

Tolooane takes a chance, learns to trust them – and follows their instructions.

“All I wanted was a healthy baby,” she explains to me.

Wish granted. Months later, this HIV-positive mom delivers an HIV-negative baby.

*****

My story about Tolooane is more than a lesson in successful healthcare intervention.

It also helps to answer one of the most vexing challenges in the mega-billion-dollar world of international-development assistance, particularly for the Communication officers of all these governmental, inter-governmental and non-governmental organizations:

How do we illuminate the lasting impact of our projects on the ground – to justify the precious donor-dollars that fund them?

Indeed, with ongoing pressure and heated debate over foreign aid, it’s not enough to reassure donors or the wider global audience with words like, “Trust us, we’re doing a great job!” Instead, it’s essential to persuade them: Show, not tell why you deserve that funding.

The most effective way to do this? Storytelling. And it’s not only me who thinks so; the United Nations, the World Bank, and many others are also on board.

Such storytelling happens to resemble the “humanizing, evidence-based” journalism I’ve practiced for 20 years – as a Foreign Correspondent who’s reported from 30 countries – and preached as a Storytelling Specialist on four continents: from New York to Hong Kong, from Prague to Lesotho. (In 2015, the training center of German media giant Deutsche Welle published my International Reporting methodology in its Beyond Your World handbook.)

In this Essay, though, I’ll focus on the storytelling method I developed in Lesotho: The Fork in the Road. While others speak vaguely of the need to “tell a good story,” here I’ll lead you step-by-step through the formula I followed with Tolooane and 23 other HIV-related stories – later published in a digital E-book – and now apply to my advocacy-work in China.

Honed to illuminate “impact,” The Fork doubles as an interview technique. It brings to life the most relevant before-and-after details, to measure the true value of that fateful “knock on the door” – whether this intervention is aimed at an individual, community, or entire society. In fact, I’m now convinced this formula works for any type of organization that must reveal impact in a more persuasive way – including, dynamic companies.

Businesses often tout, for example, their legions of “satisfied customers” – with little evidence to prove it. They’d be wiser to profile a handful of clients, on the company website, spotlighting their journey in story-form: What their situation was like before embracing your product or service; why their situation was the way it was; how your product or service improved their operation; why exactly that positive impact was achieved; and so on.

The following four-part Essay, then, is my full how-to guide to the Fork in the Road formula – a virtual training manual for how it works in both interviewing and storytelling.

*Part One argues for why exactly “humanized, evidence-based storytelling” is necessary and effective to reveal impact, in external and internal Communications alike.

*Part Two focuses on the building-blocks of any impactful story: a deep, meaningful interview. Yet in the field, your exploration may be complicated by culture and language.

*Part Three presents my Lesotho journey as a case-study. I detail how I applied The Fork in the Road to produce those 24 portraits (plus photos) of HIV orphans, vulnerable children, and caregivers like Tolooane. Lastly, I identify the one flaw with my formula.

*Part Four introduces a second case-study of my Fork in the Road in action: I’ve modified it for the more politically sensitive environment where I live today … China. In one of the world’s worst-polluted countries, I’m showing Chinese activists and students how to employ the method to effectively – but cautiously – advocate for environmental protection.

*****

Part One

In Tolooane’s case, she symbolizes how one NGO’s outreach into southern Africa has concretely changed at least this one woman’s attitudes and behaviors – and quantifiably improved her life. More important, though, her story isn’t unique, but part of a broader pattern I documented for that respected American NGO, Management Sciences for Health.

Hired by MSH as a Communications Consultant, I interviewed Tolooane and 23 other Basotho beneficiaries, to illuminate MSH efforts in Lesotho to develop a network of grassroots NGOs, to better assist “HIV Orphans and Vulnerable Children.” OVCs comprise a huge segment of society: in a country of just 1.8 million, UNICEF puts the number of “orphans” alone – children who’ve lost one or both parents – at well over 200,000.

For MSH, so much was at stake: continue the project itself, anchored by millions of dollars in funding. MSH needed to prove impact to persuade the funder – the U.S. Agency for International Development. Especially, the U.S. lawmakers who control the USAID budget.

Yet, as I was learning, MSH isn’t alone in facing the prove-your-impact challenge.

I moved to Africa in late 2011, and, confronted by Lesotho’s health crisis, my career branched into Health Communications. I wanted to help advocate for the meaningful work that so many of these aid agencies do on the frontlines of the world’s greatest social ills.

For years, I’d written about such organizations from the outside, as a curious, concerned but neutral journalist. Once I stepped inside, though, I realized that theirs is essentially a two-pronged battle: 1) the monumental challenge to achieve “behavior change” on any pressing health or social issue – in alien cultures often very different from their own; and 2) how to illuminate that change, persuasively, so it can withstand outside scrutiny.

In Lesotho, for example, hundreds of millions of dollars have been spent on various development needs over the years by the United States, UN, European Union, and others – for a country their tax-payers have barely heard of.

Yet with HIV, for example, that 23-percent infection rate (among the most sexually active population, between the ages of 15-49) hasn’t budged in more than a decade. Moreover, as I wrote in 2014, Lesotho has actually climbed the ranks of HIV’s hardest-hit nations, from third to second, because Botswana is “fighting HIV … and making progress.”

So, it raises a reasonable question: “Has anything been achieved in Lesotho? If so, what?” That stubborn HIV rate, though, does little to stem the flow of funds. Even for aid groups that claim modest success, and some positive “impact” – again, how to illuminate it?

Then it dawned on me: extrapolate out, worldwide. Recent years see more watchdogs demand from every governmental, inter-governmental and non-governmental organization a greater transparency, accountability and effectiveness at what they do.

A few months ago, a Bangkok-based communications expert described the reality to me: funders of her major international organization are primarily Western governments, whose voters are angrier about why so many tax-euros and tax-dollars are sent overseas.

“If our donors are under greater pressure about why they send us money,” she explained, “then that puts greater pressure on us to show how we spend the money.”

*****

Beyond the donors, there’s also the elite strata of a smart, curious international audience who, for some reason, are predisposed to actually care about the fate of humanity beyond their own borders: the countless health, environment, human-rights, development and democratization issues world-wide – plus, the myriad efforts to address them.

For more information, this audience typically turns to organizations “on the frontlines.” Primarily, says the Bangkok-based expert, by surfing their website, which becomes the prime “shop-window” where readers can learn: what progress, if any, the organization has made; why more isn’t being achieved; what challenges remain; what, if anything, the group is doing, or plans to do, to overcome those challenges; and so on.

This audience, generally speaking, is more than smart and curious; they’re also sophisticated and skeptical. They don’t fall easily, I believe, for aid-organizations that simply praise themselves for their wonderful intentions, lofty goals or range of projects.

In the old days, it may have sufficed for most groups to produce a dry report noting that X much was spent for X many trainings, X many workshops, attended by X number of participants. That report would land on a shelf, rarely read, gathering dust, pages yellowing.

No longer. A landmark 2006 conference marked the rise of the new Communications for Development movement. In our Information Age, though, even an organization’s “success stories” aren’t enough. They may feel good, but often too superficial and unconvincing, betraying little or no hint of significant “behavior change,” or long-term sustainability.

To gain greater “buy-in,” our savvier audience needs more convincing evidence to prove real impact: a nebulous term loosely defined as deep, lasting, even “transformational” change of attitudes and behaviors, in ways that improve lives in any targeted community.

“If you want us to believe you, even to contribute donations,” goes the sentiment, “then show us, don’t merely tell us, that you’re making a real difference on the ground.”

(Indeed, I teach the need to show, not tell in any form of lawyerly argumentation.)

*****

Concrete, fact-based results, are one thing. But they must also be paired with a clear sense of the real people whose real lives are adversely affected. In journalistic parlance, organizations should “put a human face” on those in need – and those assisted.

The Bangkok-based expert agrees: “I encourage explaining results through the human angle in almost every circumstance.”

On the one hand, it’s a crucial reminder and essential message to your audience: At the heart of what we’re trying to accomplish is to touch real people and improve real lives.

Meanwhile, a batch of these personal stories may themselves serve as a form of concrete “evidence,” subtly proving that this issue truly exists.

On the other hand, humanizing an issue is the most effective technique – even psychological strategy – to touch the soul of any audience-member already inclined to care.

As I myself have learned from my travels, when I strive to “open a window” onto the plight of a far-flung people – always for some “smart, curious” international readership – I realize that the most effective way to transcend the great distance of both geography and culture is to emphasize our “shared humanity.” (Especially when we recognize ourselves, our values, our priorities, in others:You mean in Lesotho, Basotho mothers like Mabotle Tolooane love their children, and want them to be healthy – as I want for mine? Yes, exactly.)

Lastly, read through the pages of the world’s leading English-language newspapers and magazines. Such “humanized, fact-based” storytelling is now the Western media’s most common form of foreign coverage. It’s logical, accessible, convincing.

It’s also what I teach. From Prague, where I’ve been a trainer of a unique Foreign Correspondent Training Course for the past decade, here are two samples of stories I coached our participants through, step by step, in our recent July 2016 course. The first, by a Danish woman, about educational challenges for Europe’s largest, most marginalized minority; the second, by a Frenchwoman, about the resurgent Czech glass industry.

So, if your non-for-profit organization aims to appeal to a similarly smart, curious global audience – which is already accustomed to consuming their overseas information this way – why not embrace a similar storytelling method in your Communications?

(In early 2016, the International Labor Organization office in Beijing would embrace my approach to illuminate ILO impact regarding worker’s rights in the world’s second-largest economy. I coached a handful of their Chinese experts through the entire process of producing their own “impact” features, like these two samples: Healthcare Workers Care for Us, But Who’s Caring for Them? and Ergonomics in China: Tackling Workplace Stress.)

But back to Africa. Once I settled into my new surroundings – and amid this dual push for greater accountability in foreign aid and a fresh way of communicating it – it didn’t take long for me to adapt my old techniques to my new career in international-development assistance. Enter, The Fork in the Road … and how I molded it in the mountains of Lesotho.

*****

When MSH hired me to highlight its HIV Orphans and Vulnerable Children project, I knew my mission wasn’t journalism. To that point, I’d already led several advocacy-oriented workshops in Lesotho, which saw me train Basotho journalists in how to seriously and responsibly raise awareness of issues like Maternal-Child Health, Gender-Based Violence, and the most controversial of anti-HIV methods: Voluntary Medical Male Circumcision.

For MSH, this would be my first-ever venture in producing my own Communications storytelling. By now, I’d already discovered one vital difference between the storytelling of International Journalism and that of International Communications: the issue of truth.

A Foreign Correspondent is ideally driven to reveal at least three sides to every story – the good, the bad, the ugly. However, as I observed of Communications professionals: If there’s good news, sure, they’ll share it. But if [their organization’s] efforts are somehow hampered or ineffective, this storyteller, unlike the journalist, is disinclined to probe who’s at fault, let alone publicly identify the culprits – or include the voices of finger-pointing, blame-laying critics: ‘Could it be our government partners who are obstructionist? Or, [the fault of] our beneficiaries? Or, is our own programming missing the mark?’

As I wrote as well, this is not to chastise my Communications colleagues, but to acknowledge that the media, in general, does enjoy greater freedom to name names, while aid-groups on the ground are hamstrung by the hyper-sensitivities of various “partners.”

For MSH, my assignment was to spotlight the (positive) impact, in stories, which my colleagues there then wanted to publish online, in a digital E-book. So, this was no place to probe why more isn’t being done to help Basotho beneficiaries, or whom to blame.

If this was “partial truth,” so be it. I rationalized: raising some awareness online is better than no awareness. (At the same time, I hoped that I wouldn’t be asked to fabricate positive impact, if none existed. I can only imagine that I would have refused.)

Indeed, while I could easily focus on how difficult their lives continue to be, I zeroed in on how the MSH-related intervention had quantifiably at least improved their lives.

In fact, I’d now grown to trust the NGO itself – as one of the most active, esteemed NGOs in the HIV field, across Sub-Saharan Africa. The MSH motto itself is Stronger Health Systems. Greater Health Impact. So, I even began my journey with a presumption of MSH impact. Which, candidly speaking, is again a departure from my journalistic skepticism.

*****

After three years in Lesotho, I grasp the importance of the MSH mission to help HIV orphans – and so many other Basotho children who are essentially raising themselves.

(I’m also witness to the indifference of Lesotho’s leaders: when a military coup-attempt rocked the Mountain Kingdom in August 2014, I found myself the lone Western correspondent living in the country. I covered the months of crisis that followed – exploring the root-causes of endemic corruption and political violence – for media like Agence France-Presse, Foreign Policy and South Africa’s Mail & Guardian. But that’s another story.)

For Basotho kids, the cycle of drought compounds their “vulnerability,” driving malnutrition to 40 percent nationwide – 50 percent in some villages. The World Food Program estimates that more than one-third of the nation needs “urgent” food assistance, while up to half of all Basotho toddlers purportedly suffer stunting of the brain and body.

Just as important as helping the children directly, is support for their “caregivers.” To help the kids who are forced to fend for themselves, or obliged to rear younger siblings, the Basotho nation also relies on the benevolence of others. They may be a blood-relation, like an aunt or grandmother, or an unrelated neighbor, from next door or a nearby village.

The caregiving begins with addressing the core needs of the child, namely sufficient food and decent health. Caregivers firstly ensure the kids have access to papa, the maize-meal that’s a staple of the Basotho diet: ground up corn, boiled with water into a thick porridge (a starch that’s eaten twice, even three times a day by those who can’t afford meat or vegetable, at least now and then). The caregivers themselves may help cook the papa.

Then, they may travel with the kids to the health clinic for check-ups, receive more ARTs, and monitor their daily regimen. But this form of caregiving is just to keep them alive.

Indeed, the primary focus of MSH’s five-year project, Building Local Capacity for Delivery of HIV Services in Southern Africa, was to strengthen the ability of national and local authorities, across the region, in coordination with healthcare-providers and civil-society activists – to reach into and better serve remote, under-served communities, like Lesotho’s.

HIV was at the heart of it, but MSH took a more holistic approach, to encompass tangential issues like: immunizations; nutritional testing; early-childhood education; income-generating skills like home-gardening and woodworking; micro-lending; psycho-social services; children-rights protections; youth-empowerment programs; and others.

My Communications Consultancy, which ran from March through June 2015, was two-prong. The first stage was a writing-and-communications workshop I organized for some 20 Basotho activists, all drawn from the MSH network of 11 NGOs in the mountains.

For these activists – mostly social-workers and project officers – I led a two-day training that included many of the skills I share in this Essay, entitled: Give Your Audience a Reason to Care: How Humanized, Fact-Based Storytelling Will Connect You to Donors.

The second stage was my journey into the mountains, to interview and photograph 24 beneficiaries. For this task, MSH assigns me their Junior Project Officer, a sharp young Basotho woman who will also serve as my interpreter. Together, we map out two one-week trips into the rugged hinterlands: the first in May, the second in June. We aim to hit at all 11 MSH-supported NGOs, to profile at least one, two or three beneficiaries of each NGO.

*****

Two or three interviews per day sounds simple, until I consider the logistics.

Lesotho’s Maluti Mountains are spectacular for their unspoiled beauty. (For proof, check out my photo-essay.) However, just as access to healthcare is a major hurdle for Basotho villagers – horse and donkey are a common form of transportation – so, too, is it an obstacle for service-delivery. The mountains are notorious for their serpentine roads – often unpaved, strewn with boulders, pock-marked by deep gullies.

MSH assigns us an office driver, too, and our three-member team readies for travel to interview people in villages that could take two, three, even five hours to reach.

The first step is the preparation: I begin to study up on MSH’s work, their network of local NGOs, the MSH projects in which they’ve been trained, and services they provide in the mountains. I also learn some details about the Basotho beneficiaries whom I’ll be interviewing; helpfully, the local activists have written up short profiles of them.

One mark of professionalism – and signal of respect to the subject – is to do at least some “homework” before an interview, regardless of where in the world you are. Subjects will first look into your eyes: Do they detect sincerity and compassion? Or sense boredom or disinterest? Are you only here “to do a job”? Or do you genuinely care?

Once you clear that hurdle, your mouth opens to start asking questions: the first few may be make-or-break: Will they deem you too ignorant, and shut down? Or, do you steadily earn their trust – and convince them to open up?

In this case, the activist-written profiles are a decent start, but only scratch the surface. They’re also far from publishable – especially for the targeted smart, curious international audience, which has largely never even heard of Lesotho, let alone visited.

That’s why MSH has brought me in, after all: to deliver such stories, to such readers.

However, preparing for interviews is one thing. The interview itself is quite another. And I’m gearing up for interviews that will be unlike any others I’ve ever done. Usually, I can fill in any gaps in my third-person storytelling: whatever I may miss, I can overcome from back home, in follow-up correspondence, online research, or by writing around it.

In this case, though, MSH wants me to write in a way I’ve never done before: in the first-person, as if the beneficiaries are telling their own story. But I’ll have to guide them, to draw out their story. And not just any story, but the story relevant to the MSH assistance.

Moreover, due to the distance, plus their impoverished condition, I’ll likely have just this one shot to draw out as much storytelling material as possible. So, the pressure is on.

Further complicating the process, though, are two factors: language and culture.

*****

Part Two

Over the past 25 years, I’ve interviewed thousands of people. I used to view it, naively, as simply a process of “asking questions.” Yet there are so many other influencing factors, I’m now solidly in the camp that appreciates the genuine skills involved.

Add to that, the layer of complexities when interviewing someone very “different” from you. To begin with, if you’re not fluent in their language.

Interviews slow down considerably, understandably, when conducted through an interpreter. In normal conversation, there’s the back-and-forth of question-and-answer. Mix in an interpreter, and the dialogue becomes triangular, via linguistic liaison: question-translation-answer-translation. That extra element roughly doubles the length of interview.

Concentration becomes a challenge, too. Neither the question nor the answer should run too long, stretching from sentences into paragraphs. For several reasons. It becomes too taxing for the interpreter to absorb and remember so much, then process and relate it with precision. Meanwhile, the interviewer who awaits translation of a long response, or a subject who awaits translation of a long question, may grow fidgety or distracted.

(Though, while the subject answers, toward the interpreter, I often seize this opportunity to shoot more animated photos of them – speaking and gesticulating.)

Likewise, the subject may veer off on irrelevant tangents – unbeknownst to you. Precious time may be wasted as you listen to this, then as you steer them back onto the path of relevance. There may also be innocent miscommunication, where something is literally “lost in translation” – a question or answer is mis-translated. Or, intentional misdirection. That means I must track even more closely: Did they actually answer the question I asked?

For me, this is particularly problematic. I’m a detail-oriented interviewer – as you’ll see below. I feel the need to explore as much as I can about a certain situation: why it happened the way it did, how my subject reacted, why exactly they reacted that way, and so on. This requires time and patience – by the interviewer, the interpreter and the subject.

For some interpreters over the years, mine is a maddening “quirk” they must adapt to. I won’t cut short an interview because my interpreter is fed up. My job is to get “the whole story,” so I’ll respectfully implore my interpreter to help me get whatever I need.

As I preach to my students and trainees, too – whether in Europe, Africa or Asia: the key to great storytelling are golden nuggets of illuminating anecdotes and revealing details, coupled with deep exploration of a subject’s thoughts, feelings, emotions and opinions.

Just as I press my minions to extract and verify facts for their story, I want them to politely press sources to “paint a picture” – with their words – of relevant events and meaningful milestones. Then, burrow into their heart, into their mind: More than what they think, why exactly do they think what they think? More than what they feel, why exactly do they feel what they feel? Why exactly do they believe what they believe? And so on.

Now imagine all this, through an interpreter. More than time and patience, it also requires a degree of appreciation for cultural differences. As I’ve now learned, this isn’t only relevant for Foreign Correspondents, but for the Communication staffers out in the field, since so much of their work occurs in the developing world, in alien surroundings.

*****

Over my two decades of foreign reporting – from post-Communist Eastern Europe, to Southern Africa, and now in China – I’ve observed how societies with deep traditions of authoritarian, patriarchal rule successfully stifle an individual’s ability to think critically.

Whether at the national level, or beneath your family’s roof: Do as I tell you. Don’t dare question why. This is how they keep control, of course, and avoid threats to their rule.

I first learned this as a rookie Foreign Correspondent in post-Communist Hungary, in 1994-95, just a few years after the Berlin Wall was torn down. Generations across the region who were reared amid heavy-handed dictatorship then taught their children a rule of self-preservation: Keep your head down – and your mouth shut. This fueled a culture of unquestioned authority, as well as suppressing the curiosity to wonder “Why?”

Now that I’m raising my own three kids, I see even more clearly: neither critical-thinking skills nor introspection are natural-born instincts. It’s a “culture” that needs nurturing. More than, Here’s what I did, but Why did I act that way? More than what-I-feel, Why do I feel the way I feel? More than what-I-believe, Why do I believe what I believe?

As my career evolved, I saw the pattern repeat itself in the fledgling democracies and developing countries from which I reported, particularly those untouched by the Enlightenment: societies dominated by above-reproach father-figures also spare little time encouraging – let alone respecting or defending – your thoughts, feelings or opinions.

All this is absolutely relevant context, then, when you sit to interview someone within such a society, exploring their life, or some meaningful aspect of their life, and try to probe to the depth I do: What makes them tick? In their heart? In their mind? And why that?

They may stare at you blankly: I don’t know. Or: I’ve never thought about it before. To which I’ll respond, smiling: Go ahead, take a moment to think about it. I’m curious. I’ll wait.

On the flip side, what can often bridge this cultural divide is what I teach as “The Psychology of Sources.” I recognize my self-interest in wanting to interview them. But what might be their possible self-interest, to be willingly interviewed by me? (Or, to not want to be interviewed?) Perhaps they have a financial, political or professional self-interest?

Beyond those motives, here’s what I call “the dirty little secret” about interviewing ordinary folks – and why roughly 97 percent of those I’ve approached over the years agreed to talk: Being asked questions about yourself ranks among the highest forms of flattery.

How so? Consider your own daily life. How often do family, friends or others ask: How was your day? No, I really want to know! I care! So, you tell them. Then what happened? How did you react? What was on your mind? Why were you thinking that? And so on.

Few of us experience that degree of curiosity – if at all. Then one day, along comes a stranger, an interviewer, suddenly interested in something about you, which others close to you may find utterly uninteresting. You even want to share my story with an audience? Yes.

If handled seriously, with palpable sincerity, your subject will likely be … flattered. Then, magically, watch as they open up to share their deepest thoughts and feelings.

*****

Nevertheless, conducting interviews in patriarchal Lesotho is complicated by quirks of the people themselves, compounded by life in one of the world’s sickliest societies.

By the time my MSH assignment rolls around, in April 2015, I’ve developed a deep affection for a tribe I refer to alliteratively as “my beloved but beleaguered Basotho.”

I feel I understand their pain as much as any well-intentioned foreigner can, especially in the wake of that failed coup by venal elites, which further victimizes ordinary Basotho. For MSH, I want to hear their tale of woe – and what has changed their lives for the better – then share it with a wider audience. I’m prepared to be a patient listener.

Yet, with all due respect to the Basotho, they are, largely, a simple people, living a simple life – filled with so much hardship and tragedy. Sadly, none of this is new. With their staple maize-meal vulnerable to the whims of weather, they’ve endured centuries of cyclical feast and famine. (In the 19th century, one desperate clan allegedly turned to cannibalism.)

The simplicity of the Basotho is summed up by the yearning within their three-word national motto: Khotso, pula, nala! Peace, rain, prosperity. What more do we need in life?

In the capital, Maseru, a Basotho friend once described politicians as “a Parliament of herdboys.” Up in the mountains, the ubiquitous herdboys themselves are a microcosm of simplicity: wrapped in tattered blankets, they may spend hours and hours trudging with cattle or goats, occasionally swinging a stick or hurling a rock, to keep the beasts in line. (Often held out of school, many are hindered by illiteracy – and at-risk of HIV.)

Across the mountains, little has changed since the time of their forefathers: three-quarters reportedly lack electricity, with most living in traditional stone-and-thatch homes – sealed by cow-dung. The day starts at sunrise, and ends when the cooking-fire burns out.

These village-folk move slowly – and speak slowly. There’s rarely a reason to rush, little stimulation for their minds, no need to think too deeply about the world around them.

Against this backdrop, here I come – with my probing, persistent questions – joined by an interpreter, no less. I hope to draw out their story; specifically, in what way one of these 11 grassroots organizations, supported by MSH, has positively impacted their lives.

Yet, I quickly realize that I can’t fully appreciate the impact if I don’t grasp what their lives were like beforehand. Imagine the alternative: a story that superficially focuses on the services or skills provided, coupled with beneficiary praise. Thanks for improving my life!

It’s the same rationale for Why study history? How else to meaningfully comprehend where we are today – as a people, a nation, or as humanity itself – unless we grasp how and why we got here? (Once we grasp that, we may more accurately anticipate our future, too.)

That’s the genesis of The Fork in the Road – and the starting-point for my interviews.

*****

It isn’t long into my first trip into the mountains, within my first few interviews, that I detect the necessity for background context: start by asking questions about their past, then build up to the outside intervention. Or, what I’ll soon term The Knock On The Door.

It’s more than chronological questioning, though. At every step of the way is the need for four essential storytelling elements: facts, details, anecdotes and insights. I’ll soon provide you a concrete example. But for now, our narrative arc goes something like this:

*First, their deep past: What was your situation like beforehand? Or farther back: What was your life like growing up? Then, the necessary follow-up question, digging deeper: Why exactly was your situation that way? Or: Why exactly was your childhood that way?

*Let’s say they respond with something like, Life was hard. Maybe they think that’s a sufficient response – or enough to satisfy you. They may still be unconvinced of your sincere curiosity. But that’s too superficial for us. So, probe deeper, for details: How hard was it?

*Beyond details, let’s also “show, not tell.” Bring to life their reality – with a colorful anecdote. To elicit one, ask my favorite two-word question: For example? How hard was it?

*Now, capture their insights by exploring their thoughts, feelings and emotions: How did you react to this hard life? Why exactly did you react the way you reacted?

*Then, their opinions, even analysis: Why exactly do you think it was so hard?

By now, this may strike you as a bit too rigorous of an interview. No. Not only is this degree of exploration needed to produce what I call “serious and responsible, deep and meaningful” storytelling, but it’s especially necessary in international storytelling.

After all, a “hard life” to your smart, curious (even concerned) external audience could mean ten different things to ten different readers. Again, if our goal is to bridge the gulf of geography and culture, to touch a foreigner’s heart, then we must work to show how hard the life truly is for the HIV-stricken, malnutrition-suffering Basotho of Lesotho.

*****

The interview continues. While it remains chronological, it’s no longer linear.

We’re approaching a fork, a crossroads. As we vividly portray the life they’re living, one day there’s that “knock at the door.” Literally, it may be an international, national, regional or village activist who comes knocking, offering some exciting new opportunity. Or, they hear about it from the radio. Or, via word of mouth. Or, perhaps their village chieftain convenes a pitso (in Sesotho, a community-wide “meeting”) to announce it.

They face a choice – just as we do every day, in ways large and small, rationalizing our decisions. (For lunch, do I want a salad? Or pizza? Which one? And why that one? Do I want to work for a company? Or in the non-profit world? Which one? And why that one?)

In this case, our subject could choose to ignore whatever opportunity beckons. No one twists their arm, forcing them to attend – or to change their ways. At this fork in the road, some might veer onto the path to the left: continue their daily struggle for survival.

Yet that’s still a decision. If your field-research and storytelling aims to compare those who seized this opportunity, with those who shunned it: Why exactly did you ignore that opportunity? Or, conversely: Why exactly didn’t you ignore this opportunity?

For my MSH assignment, though, it’s relevant to contrast the options, in order to underscore and illuminate the impact: What would your life have been like if you’d ignored this opportunity? Where would you be today if there’d been no knock on your door?

With my subjects, they clearly chose the path to the right. So, there’s clear value in exploring their decision-making process: Why exactly did you choose that? Was it an easy or difficult decision? Why? What factors did you consider? Why those factors? And so on.

That knock-on-the-door is about to become an actual “intervention.” It will soon produce some sort of impact – whether positive or negative. In the run-up to a real event – if a training, workshop, lecture, etc. – there’s potential value in exploring their state of mind.

So, let’s take a quick detour to an interview technique I call “Hopes, Dreams and Fears.” It’s actually a series of three questions, at three separate stages of the intervention process. The first stage is before, say, a skills-training – and purely speculative.

For example: Before you began the training, what did you hope it would be like? Where you’d learn which skills? Why exactly were you hoping for that? What sort of longer-term improvement in your life did you dream about? Why exactly were you dreaming about that? Was there anything that you feared might happen? Why exactly did you fear that?

Then you begin the training. You see the reality. So: How did your hopes for the training, or for your future, change? Why did they change that way? How did your dreams for the future change? Why that way? How did your fears change? Why that way? And so on.

Lastly, the training ends. Now you’re back home, applying the skills and knowledge acquired. Today, moving forward, what are your hopes, dreams and fears? Why exactly those?

That said, those are more abstract thoughts and feelings. Let’s return to our original mission: the search for tangible “impact.” Specifically, quantifiable changes of behavior.

*****

During this training, workshop, lecture, etc., we ask them to describe in detail the key moments of the experience – to “paint a picture” with their words, so that we ourselves can “see” what it was like, clearly enough for us to then “show” our readers.

As earlier, we probe for facts, details, anecdotes and insights. Yet the central focus now: In what way did this event open their hearts, open their minds – and change their attitudes? A change in attitude is generally a necessary precursor for a change in behavior.

So: Did that experience open your eyes, your mind? How exactly? Why exactly that way? What was your attitude before? And why? What was your new attitude? And why?

The training, workshop or lecture finishes. Our subject returns home. The moment of truth. Attitude change is one thing; behavior change is another. Actions speak louder than words. Some never change their behavior, of course. But again, for my assignment, MSH has pointed me toward those who’ve already done something new with their lives. There’s been discernible “impact.” My challenge now is to illuminate that impact – in story-form.

After the training, workshop or lecture: How did your behaviors change? Why’d they change that way? Please describe the precise steps you took to change your behavior. Explain why exactly you took each step, how you felt about each step, and why you felt that way.

Moreover: How difficult was it to make those changes in attitudes and behaviors? Why? How difficult was it to maintain, from that point onward, those changes in attitude and behavior? Why? Did you share your new attitudes and behaviors with family and friends? Why or why not? How did they react to your changes? Why did they react that way?

That was the initial reaction, the immediate changes. Now, let’s bring them up to the present: What’s happened in your life since that time? Why those developments? What are your thoughts and feelings about that? Why those? In what concrete way has your life improved? Why exactly has it improved that way? Your thoughts and feelings? Why those?

More: What are your attitudes and behaviors today? Why? In what specific ways have they changed? Why exactly that way? What about those of family and friends? Why that way?

Lastly, the forward-spin. Have them peer into their crystal-ball, speculating on their own future. Where will they go from here? Ask: Will you continue these behaviors? Why or why not? Will you try to expand or deepen your behaviors? Why or why not? What challenges would you face? Why those challenges? How might you overcome them? Why that way?

More: Will you share your new attitudes and behaviors with more family, friends, neighbors and others? Why or why not? What challenges do you face in trying to convince others? Why exactly are these challenges so challenging? How to overcome? Why that way?

More than quality storytelling material, we now have evidence of concrete impact.

*****

Part Three

In early June 2015, as another frigid winter set descends upon southern Africa, I find myself deep in northeast Lesotho, among the rugged, 3,000-meter peaks of Mokhotlong. It’s so remote, key supplies are still brought in via pony-trek from next-door Natal, South Africa. Among Mokhotlong’s other factoids: it’s home to Letseng, the world’s highest-elevated diamond mine, and sits along the route of the “Roof of Africa” off-road motorcycle rally.

I’ve never endured winter as in Lesotho, nicknamed both “The Mountain Kingdom” and “Kingdom in the Sky.” The thin, un-insulated, plate-glass windows in nearly every home or building offer no defense to the bone-chilling cold. My toes and fingertips always feel icy.

On this morning, buried beneath the blankets, the space-heater barely warming my feet, I rise early to meet Lindiwe – the MSH junior project officer who doubles as my trusty interpreter – and our reliable driver, Tseliso. We have a long but scenic drive ahead of us.

Our mission is to explore the other half of the “HIV Orphan and Vulnerable Children” cohort: kids vulnerable to malnutrition. The Basotho grow up exposed to a staggering range of risks: beyond HIV, hunger and stunting, there’s tuberculosis, immunization-preventable afflictions like polio, physical or sexual abuse. Even diarrhea claims one child per day.

Right now, though, I recall the words of one of the first folks I met in Lesotho. “HIV gets most of the attention down here, understandably,” U.S. Ambassador Michelle Thoren Bond told me at a barbeque, as I informed her of my plan to focus on health-journalism training and communications. “But malnutrition is just as pervasive and devastating.”

Driving to Mokhotlong from Maseru, Lesotho’s small, sleepy capital, already took six hours the day before – mostly on serpentine, single-lane roads. This morning, it’ll be two more hours of the same. Then, veer off-road to one of the farthest-flung of villages.

First, we pick up a local activist, Fusi, of one of the 11 local, MSH-supported NGOs, GROW. In a region so remote that little foreign aid reaches it, either, Fusi’s NGO is one of the few to provide services for OVCs and caregivers, like “food and nutritional support, education on legal rights and child protection, and psychosocial and spiritual support.”

As we wind back and forth, Fusi explains how great the public’s needs are, and the challenges that GROW faces. This no longer requires my imagination; I’m visualizing it in real-time. Looking out the window, it’s as if I’ve stepped into a National Geographic video.

We drive past the occasional cluster of rondavels – the traditional homes made of stone, cow dung and thatch. A herdboy trudges along the road, in frayed clothes, tending to goats. Farther off, an old woman stirs papa in a boiling, cast-iron pot. A young woman walks with an infant, fast asleep, strapped to her back by blanket. A boy scrubs his white school shirt in a plastic basin. An old man leads a cow, tapping his backside with a stick.

Our third hour is off-road, over rocks and erosion-caused fissures so harrowing, our 4-by-4 lurches violently. My head smacks the side-window multiple times. I enjoy it all.

Finally, we arrive at our destination. We track down the GROW liaison in the village, Marethabile Ramotsekhoane, who is also what’s known as a “secondary” caregiver: she reaches out to both the local children in need and the “primary” caregivers who help them.

It’s a harsh life up here, she explains to us: most youth head to Maseru or South Africa, hunting for work, while leaving behind children, the elderly, and little to eat. Her GROW activities focus on food-security and income-generation. She then leads us up a rocky path to the humble home of one beneficiary, a grandmother named Mamokone Motloli.

*****

It’s cold but sunny, so we all happily agree to sit outside Ms. Motloli’s home on battered stools – soaking up as much of the sun’s warmth as we can. I start easy, asking the 60-year-old for basic facts about who lives here with her. Also, who doesn’t – and why not.

Even this takes time and attention to detail. Ms. Motloli, as others I’ve interviewed so far, speaks slowly, in short sentences. She could be shy, reticent and/or inarticulate. Regardless, the onus is on me to be patient, earn trust, and persuade her to open up further.

Later, back in Maseru, I’ll decide to open my story about her and the other 23 subjects the same exact way: First, simply set the scene, with relevant context about their existence. In Ms. Motloli’s case, here’s how it will appear when published online:

I have seven daughters, but only my youngest lives with me. She’s 18. I also have my five grandchildren living with me. They’re from three of my older daughters, none of whom are married. They all left our village looking for work in different places, as a housekeeper or textile worker – anything they can find. Because here, there’s nothing: no job opportunities.

Next, her backstory. Draw out what I truly believe to be her real-life drama. Even more, to illuminate the true MSH impact, we must highlight the “before and after” reality.

It was very difficult for me even raising my own girls. Sometimes they went to bed on an empty stomach. It was hard to see my children going to sleep like that.

I can see she’s now sensing my sincere interest in her story. I’m also imagining how rarely in her life – if at all – anyone’s expressed such curiosity about her condition. At this point, I respectfully dig deeper to unearth details of exactly “how hard” it was to survive.

Back then, I’d do small jobs to make a bit of money, like sometimes doing the neighbors’ laundry. I’d collect firewood, sometimes earning enough for food from that. [Later] my daughters would occasionally send money, but not every month. I’d have to borrow maize-meal from a neighbor, or sometimes even soap. We had nothing, just water.

*****

Allow me another brief detour, to zero in on that key detail: soap. By now, living here for three years, I see the magnitude of the Basotho health crisis. In fact, I’m continually reminded how fortunate – and privileged – my own kids are, to be spared such misery.

It also fuels my anger at Lesotho’s leaders: the craven corruption, incompetence or outright unresponsiveness to their own people. Between all the free HIV meds, plus extra food hand-outs, supplied by the international community, the Basotho nation would be on life-support, perhaps on the verge of extinction. Yet while Roma burns, the leaders fiddle.

Case in point, I’m now listening to a granny describe the indignity of not only asking neighbors for food, but even for soap. And sometimes, going without. Hygiene is another challenge here, with programs aimed at educating some folks about the need to wash hands after, say, bowel movements. Now I imagine her grandchildren’s unwashed bodies. Their unwashed clothes. And what that does to a person’s self-esteem. Especially to a child’s?

So, I ask Ms. Motloli about all of that. Yet later that day, I’m blindsided by Lindiwe, my interpreter. Her searing insinuation: with this grandmother, I was culturally insensitive and damaging her dignity. How? By probing into the soap situation.

I did it a second time, she says, during the interview afterward with Ms. Motloli’s eldest grandchild, 14-year-old Paballo, when I asked him how hunger affects him:

Before my grandmother began her vegetable garden, sometimes there wasn’t enough food for us and we’d go to bed hungry. It was difficult, because then we’d wake up even hungrier, go to school, and have to wait until lunch before we could eat. I was going to school, firstly, because I love school. But then also for the lunch … I was unhappy, because I couldn’t concentrate in class – I was too hungry to listen freely.

Yet as Lindiwe puts it, I was “twisting their story for something juicier.”

I’m stunned. In general, I consider myself to be as culturally respectful as any foreigner, particularly as an international storyteller. I try to explain to Lindiwe, why I honed in on this detail: it wasn’t to be nosy – and certainly not to humiliate her.

Instead, part of our mission with this entire storytelling project is to show, not tell the need for international-development assistance – and bolster the case for continued foreign aid. The most effective way to do this is also to reveal the depth of deprivation.

“If some Basotho children need soap,” I tell Lindiwe, “shouldn’t we let a generous donor know they need soap? And what could be more effective than to let them explain for themselves why they don’t have soap, how it affects them – and why they need it?”

This doesn’t placate her, but at least she sees I feel strongly about the need to ask. So, she counters with a fair point: Then I should preface such sensitive questions with a formulation that comes across as more respectful, even apologetic. Something like: With all due respect … Or: I don’t mean to offend you, but may I ask you a personal question?

Since Lindiwe is “on the front-lines” here, dealing with the cultural mores of asking such questions – especially of Basotho elders – I trust her judgment. I’ll alter my style.

Later, in further deference to Lindiwe’s concerns, when writing Ms. Motloli’s story back in Maseru, I will also tone down the soap-as-metaphor angle. (As you’ve read above.)

*****

Sitting in front of her now, though, I don’t shy away from exploring her emotional state – to share that with readers. She continues with her story, as I piece it together:

Then I could see my daughters facing the same challenge I had: of feeding their own children. I was feeling hopeless, to see that situation continue for my daughters and their children. I didn’t know what to do.

Now, Ms. Motloli’s scene is set. A picture is painted. Then, “a knock on the door.”

I first heard of GROW in 2012, when my neighbor, Ms. Marethabile [Ramotsekhoane], told me what she’d learned from them about how to come up with some means of a livelihood. Ms. Marethabile encouraged me to grow a large garden with many types of vegetables. She encouraged me to grow for consumption, but grow enough to sell as well. I didn’t even realize that I could earn money from that.

The intervention opens her mind. Changes her attitude. Then, changes her behavior.

I joined our Voluntary Savings and Loan group and borrowed money to buy seeds. It has made a large impact on my life. I was trained on how to plant crops – to help feed the children enough, but also more nutritiously: cabbage, spinach, carrots, beetroot … Then, how to sell the extra vegetables I produce.

That behavior change eventually yields “impact,” as well.

From that, now I make enough to cover my other household needs, like buying maize-meal and soap. The kids are now clean and better protected from diseases.

I can also buy paraffin and matches for the lantern. We cook with firewood, but before, we didn’t have anything for lighting – just the fire we made. We had to have dinner while the sun was still out, before sunset. Then get to bed before dark. But now we can eat later. We have time to sit and eat nicely, and chat like a normal family.

Ms. Motloli goes on to describe other survival-skills she’s learned.

Last month, I attended a GROW training on financial management. I learned to manage the books and separate out my assets, expenses, and profits. Before, I didn’t pay attention: just sell the produce, put the money in my pocket, then buy what I need.

Since I’ve now learned how a proper business should be run, I’m going to do it differently next summer. I’ll know exactly how much I spent on seeds. Then after selling, exactly how much profit I earned.

Nevertheless, Ms. Motloli knows that she and her grandkids remain “vulnerable.”

But we also learned that we need to come up with other means of livelihood for when the winter gets here – because the crops may no longer be there. That’s what I’m worried about right now: the winter season has arrived, and the vegetables are drying out. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sell them, or have enough to provide for the kids. I’m very worried they may go to bed again on empty stomachs. I look forward to when summer arrives again.

I finish by once more exploring her psyche – and newfound self-esteem. This is more than arming people with survival skills; they still need the confidence to believe they can actually do it. Remember, this woman was reduced to practically begging from neighbors.

I wouldn’t call myself a “businesswoman.” But I am confident about doing a better job of managing the crops; to grow, sell, and make enough money for the kids to eat well and keep clean; and to provide them with other necessities.

My daughters are proud of me. Not just for selling the vegetables, but that I’m providing even better for their kids now – and raising them well.

*****

Seems like a piece of cake, right? Hardly. That’s the illusion created: as if a tape-recorder is held before their mouth, and they tell their “story,” fully and fluidly, from start to finish. (With Lindiwe interpreting, Ms. Motloli’s interview still clocks in at two hours.)

However, no one talks that way. Especially, not the Basotho I interviewed.

In fact, whenever Basotho subjects speak more freely, at length, I’m thrilled – and loathe to interrupt. This often leads to disjointed storytelling, as it did here, in reality. This adds pressure on me to keep track of the holes, then return with questions to fill those gaps.

That’s the hidden challenge. Looking through my journal later, I see the zig-zag of her storytelling, the jig-saw puzzle of my notes. Plus, so many snippets of words, partial sentences, and incomplete thoughts. Stitching it together will require something that I’ve never before deployed in my career: a degree of “creative license” to tell their story.

Back in Maseru, I spend several hours to transcribe all my notes from Ms. Motloli, a couple more to arrange them around a central theme, molding it into a coherent, cohesive story. Then, several more to fill in the gaps – and polish it. So, roughly one full day per story.

As a rule of thumb, I always strive to maintain the integrity of a non-native English-speaker’s story: the “essence” of their meaning, intent and style. To be fair, they may be more articulate in their mother-tongue. (Conversely, an interpreter may be cleaning up their language, presenting it to me more concisely or intelligently than they heard it.)

It’s an imperfect process, so my goal isn’t perfect precision – which I consider an impossible ideal. Instead, my aim is that afterward, if the subject were to read my piece, they would proclaim: Yes, that’s my story. Those are my words … More or less.

Judge for yourself, by reading the two dozen profiles I wrote – plus the photos I shot. MSH eventually published all of it in January 2016, in their digital e-book, Voices from the Mountains of Lesotho. MSH was pleased with the results, as was I.

*****

Lastly, the 24 moving stories that I’d collected were indeed concrete evidence. But evidence of what, exactly? Impact on 24 lives, certainly. Yet what can we learn from that?

That’s the flaw I identified with my method. One crucial element of my style of “serious and responsible, deep and meaningful” journalism is to explore and explain to your audience: Is this story, this situation, utterly unique? Or, part of a broader pattern or trend?

If it’s unique, then state so explicitly, explain why exactly it’s unique, and back it up with your credible facts, drawn from credible sources, to show and prove that it’s unique. But if it’s part of a broader trend, then “connect the dots” to that trend, and, similarly, prove it with concrete facts – unearthed by you, or at least attributable to a credible source.

For this assignment, however, my MSH colleagues didn’t instruct me to connect the dots – to probe how broad or deep their impact in Lesotho truly was over the five-year duration of the project. Nor did MSH voluntarily provide me with such research. Even today, I’m not quite sure if they even did such research.

In short, a skeptic could question if these 24 stories themselves were “unique” – the only 24 Basotho impacted by MSH’s years of effort, cherry-picked for a book to misleadingly suggest much broader and deeper impact. Yes, all that’s possible. But, highly unlikely.

That said, while the true breadth and depth is certainly significant information, they may not be the most important facts of the story. Amid my communications-storytelling project, many foreign-aid activists in Lesotho – myself included – saw the 23%-rate-of-HIV-infection-that-hasn’t-budged-in-a-decade and wondered: Has anything been achieved?

Some of the more disillusioned and embittered took it a step further: Can anything be achieved with these Basotho? My 24 profiles, then, provide a decent rejoinder.

Reading the stories, you tell me: Were eyes and minds opened? Were attitudes and behaviors changed? Were lives touched and improved? Yes. Some impact was achieved.

Meanwhile, Lesotho also taught me the meaning of a key buzzword in development assistance: sustainability. As I met the underpaid, overstretched Basotho activists from each of the 11 local NGOs, observed their outreach into one of the most remote corners in all of Africa, it rejuvenated my optimism for the potential of the Basotho to help themselves.

(Especially, since I was now weeks away from leaving Lesotho for good, after three-and-a-half years here. In August 2015, we moved to China – as the next chapter explains.)

Fusi, the GROW activist, had bemoaned his estimate that “three out of every 10 people we train are still too lazy to do anything for themselves.” First, I thought the term “lazy” sounded unfair, considering what emotional trauma the health crisis has inflicted on every single person here. Then it struck me: So you mean seven out of 10 respond positively?

Yes, Fusi admitted: When provided with sufficient skills and tools, the majority of Basotho beneficiaries are actually taking steps to hoist themselves out of their plight.

For the sake of “sustainability,” then, I wanted to see the MSH support continue: Aid this fledgling army of activists. Enable their roots to burrow deeper and take hold. Reach even more people, to broaden and deepen the impact. Perhaps even bloom?

Fine, I don’t expect miracles. I’ve seen too much in Lesotho, in one of the world’s most poorly run countries, with a highlander people often as stubborn as their donkeys. Yet, at least now I witnessed first-hand a reality that isn’t black and white, but shades of grey.

More Basotho deserve a chance, to transform their own lives: from one of hardship, to one of hope. But don’t take my word for it. I’ll give the last word to Ms. Mabotle Tolooane, whose story opened this Essay, as she described to me the impact she has on others today.

Since I’ve accepted my HIV status, and everyone in the village knows I’m HIV-positive, I’ll share with other women that it’s possible to have an HIV-negative baby. But they must go to the clinic, even if it’s during the later stages of their pregnancy.

I see myself as a good example to the others, as an HIV-positive woman who learned how to have an HIV-negative baby.

*****