Is This the Burial of Human Rights in Lesotho?

Perhaps the most dangerous thing about a human rights crisis is not that violations happen, it is that society slowly becomes accustomed to them.

We read about them, we discuss them for a few days, we express outrage, then another story comes along and we move on.

Lesotho finds itself at an uncomfortable moment. Within days, the country has been confronted with allegations of sexual harassment involving an officer of the Office of the Prime Minister and a member of the public, alongside the alleged abduction and torture of a journalist and human-rights defender Kananelo Boloetse.

These are separate cases and they must be investigated separately. Allegations must not be mistaken for convictions but together, they raise a question that Lesotho cannot afford to avoid: Are we witnessing the erosion of our culture of human rights and, if so, how far has it gone?

The Office of the Prime Minister’s response to the sexual-harassment allegation is important. In its September 4 statement, the Office described the allegations as serious and sensitive. It acknowledged that people reporting sexual harassment and gender-based violence can face stigma, victimisation, intimidation and further harm. It also said that the matter was brought to the attention of the Commissioner of Police, taking into account the complainant’s concerns and fears.

That is the right principle but human rights are not protected by statements alone. They are protected by what institutions do after the statements have been issued. Investigation is the beginning of accountability, not its conclusion and that is where the public interest lies.

If the police are investigating the allegation, the investigation must be credible, impartial and sufficiently transparent to inspire public confidence. If there is no evidence of a crime, that should be established through due process.

If there is evidence of a crime, those responsible must face the law. The identity, position or political connections of the person accused cannot determine the outcome. That is what equality before the law means.

While this matter unfolds, another disturbing episode has emerged. Newsday newspaper reports that its editor and human-rights defender, Kananelo Boloetse was allegedly abducted from his home in Maseru on September 5 by three unidentified men.

According to the statement by the publication, he was questioned about his journalism and human-rights work, assaulted and later abandoned in Thaba-Bosiu. The newspaper says he was also threatened with death if the incident was reported.

Those are grave allegations and they demand more than outrage on social media. They demand answers: who abducted him? Who assaulted him? Why was he questioned about his journalism and human-rights work? Was the attack connected to his work? Were the perpetrators acting alone and perhaps most importantly: who, if anyone, ordered it?

If a journalist can allegedly be taken from his home, assaulted and threatened because of the work he does, then this is not merely a personal tragedy. It is a threat to the public’s right to know.

A journalist does not surrender his human rights because he asks uncomfortable questions. An activist does not surrender his right to security because he challenges power. A woman does not surrender her right to justice because she makes an allegation against someone connected to the establishment.

An ordinary citizen should never have to calculate whether speaking out is worth the risk. This is why these cases should concern us beyond the personalities involved. The real issue is the strength of our institutions.

A country can have a Constitution that guarantees fundamental rights. It can have laws against assault, sexual violence and intimidation. It can establish institutions responsible for protecting citizens but the true test of a democracy is what happens when those rights collide with power.

Does the law protect the powerful and the powerless equally? Does a complainant receive the same seriousness whether the accused is an ordinary citizen or someone close to government?

Does a journalist receive protection when his reporting becomes uncomfortable for people in positions of influence? Does the police service investigate allegations without fear or favour?

When state institutions fail, who holds them accountable? These are not abstract questions, they are the questions that determine whether citizens trust the State.

Lesotho has lived through enough political and institutional crises to understand the danger of impunity because impunity does not begin with people openly declaring that they are above the law.

It begins much more quietly, it begins when people stop expecting anything to happen. When victims stop reporting, when witnesses become afraid, when journalists begin self-censoring, when activists decide that silence is safer than speaking, when citizens conclude that justice depends on who you are and whom you know. That is when human rights begin to die.

Not necessarily in one dramatic moment. They die slowly, through fear, silence, institutional weakness and the normalisation of wrongdoing. Perhaps that is the question Lesotho must confront now. Are we becoming accustomed to things that should never become normal?

The alleged sexual assault, the alleged abduction, the alleged torture and the alleged intimidation.

These must not become competing political narratives, they must not become ammunition for partisan arguments. They must become tests of our institutions. The Government has an opportunity here. It can demonstrate that its own words about human rights, dignity and protection from victimisation mean something beyond a press release.

It can ensure that the sexual-harassment allegation is investigated properly. It can ensure that the alleged attack on Boloetse is investigated urgently and independently. It can ensure that journalists, activists, complainants and witnesses are protected from retaliation. It can make it clear that nobody, whether politically connected or completely unknown is beyond the reach of the law.

Ultimately, this is not about defending one political camp against another. It is about defending a principle.

Nobody is above the law, nobody is beneath its protection.

The question before Lesotho is therefore not simply whether human rights are being violated. It is whether our institutions are strong enough to protect them when it matters most.

Perhaps the most frightening possibility is not that human rights are already dead, it is that we are slowly becoming comfortable attending their funeral.

How much longer before we realise that we are the ones burying them?