Lesotho: I carried their stories home

I thought understanding it in a theory meant I could handle it in reality. 

As a Social Worker, you are taught how to listen, how to hold space, how to respond with care and not emotion, how to empathize and not sympathise. You learn about Gender-Based Violence in books, articles, lectures, in structured discussions where everything feels contained and manageable, and in fieldwork placements where you have a supervisor and everything seems easier when discussing the issues together and come up with solutions. 

But now? Now I was all alone, alone with a client who trusted me with the adverse experiences they had recently faced, and hoped I could emotionally support them. This was something entirely different from what I had gotten used to over the years of my training. 

The first story did not just stay in the room, I carried it home.

I remember the silence that followed after she was done narrating her story. It was not an empty silence, but a heavy one. It was the kind that sat in my chest and refused to move. I kept thinking, what do I even say after that?  There were no perfect words. No response that felt enough to console someone who has endured through so much pain. 

And then, there were more stories, some sent chills down my spine while others were spoken softly, almost like they were just secrets. Some came in fragments, like the pieces that had been bottled in their chests for far too long. What unsettled me the most was not just pain, but how familiar it all felt. How these experiences exist so close to us, yet remain so hidden.

There was a strange feeling in my bones that I failed to name - a heaviness I couldn’t shake off and a tightened chest. 

I got a feeling of anger, not just at perpetrators but at the system that continue to fail survivors. At how victims are often silenced, doubted, or left to endure these experiences alone, and are sometimes expected to live in the same environment as the perpetrators because he was given bail. I found myself filled with so many questions that had no one to answer.  I wondered how hurtful it is to experience GBV and the case cannot be completed because there was no enough evidence found. How heart-breaking it is to try to report your experience and all you get is judgements and blames. 

There was a moment in the middle of the interviews when I felt switching off would be the best option for me. I wanted to distance myself and have my own space just to restore my emotional wellbeing before I could continue. This was because feeling everything so deeply was overwhelming for me. But right there and then I remember that turning away is a privilege that many survivors wished to have but there was no possibility. 

So I stayed with it. 

And somewhere in the midst of that discomfort, I began to notice something else: STRENGTH. The one that was not loud and visible, the quiet one. The kind that urges them to speak even though it was not easy. Also, to relive that trauma and still choose to share it.  That kind of strength positively changed how I saw that work. 

The I-stories took away any distance I thought I had. They reminded me that being a social worker is not just about knowledge or skills – it is about being present, even when it is hard. It is about holding space without trying to fix everything. It is about recognising the weight and pain of what a victim has entrusted you with. 

Three months later, I still carry those stories with me.

Not in a way that overwhelms me, but in a way that reminds me why I studied Social Work, why listening matters especially to those individuals who are still holding on even though they went through so much. It taught me the importance of kindness to everyone we meet, not just in the areas of work but in our day to day life. 

Because these are not just “cases” or “issues”. 

These are people.

(Written by Thandiwe Hlelesi, Gender Links Intern)