In Lesotho, the textile industry is the country's largest private employer. Two years ago, when the coronavirus pandemic hit, the global fashion industry collapsed. Brands canceled orders worth billions of dollars, a devastating blow for Lesotho's garment workers.
When the coronavirus pandemic hit the world two years ago, the global fashion industry collapsed.
Faced with collapsing demand, brands canceled orders worth billions of dollars, and few felt the effects as acutely as the tens of millions of workers, mostly women, who sewed the world's clothing. In Lesotho, a small, mountainous country nestled within South Africa, the pain was particularly acute.
Although small compared to global garment giants such as Bangladesh and China, Lesotho's garment industry is the country's largest private employer, and more than 80% of its workers are women , according to government officials.
Most of them are the first women in their families to earn a salary, a quiet gender revolution built on T-shirts and tracksuits.
In 2001, Lesotho signed a US trade agreement: the African Growth and Opportunities Act , which guaranteed duty-free importation into the United States of clothing manufactured in the country.
Chinese and Taiwanese companies have built sprawling factories on the industrial outskirts of Maseru, and today textile products account for nearly half of Lesotho's exports, or about $415 million annually , primarily destined for the United States. But the first rumblings of the global crisis that became the coronavirus pandemic emerged in early 2020, when the Chinese companies that supply most of the fabrics abruptly canceled their shipments.
For two months, Lesotho's entire garment industry shut down, except for a few factories that converted to producing masks and other protective equipment. In May 2020, the factories reopened, but the crisis continued, with companies laying off thousands of workers and closing factories. The following year, workers were desperate.
In May 2021, local unions organized a strike to raise the garment industry's minimum monthly wage—then at 2,100 loti (approximately $140). The protests turned violent, and security forces shot and killed a garment worker.
The factories finally agreed to raise wages by 14%, but complained that the results would devastate their businesses and warned that factory closures would follow.
"I don't want him to work in a factory."
Kheoane clung to her job, trying to work harder and faster to avoid being the next worker laid off. Every day, as she marked the seams of her t-shirts thousands of times, she thought of her family in Ha Ramokhele, a mountain village two hours' drive from the city.
While Kheoane was working, her son, Bokang, stayed in Ha Ramokhele with his mother. At 11 years old, he missed months of school during the pandemic, and Kheoane worries he'll fall behind. Her greatest wish for Bokang: " I don't want him to work in a factory ," she says. " Nobody wants their children to have the life they had ."
Experts are uncertain about the future of the garment industry, both in Lesotho and globally. It's unclear whether the industry will find ways to better protect workers or continue its pursuit of the cheapest possible production. Amid this uncertainty, Kheoane is grateful for her work. She learned long ago that when there's money in Lesotho, many hands reach out to claim it.
According to development experts, each garment worker's wage supports half a dozen people. With that paycheck, Kheoane's son needed new school shoes, and his mother had asked for groceries.
