How U.S. Tariffs are Crushing Lesotho’s Garment Workers: A Call for Change

In Maseru, Lesotho, women gather every morning at the gates of a garment factory. They bundle themselves in warm clothes and wait, hoping to be called in for a shift. But more often than not, the gates stay closed.

This scene reflects the impact of recent U.S. tariffs imposed by former President Trump, which have hit Lesotho’s garment industry hard. Once known as “the Denim Capital of Africa,” many factories are now shuttered or facing severe restrictions, leaving thousands of workers in limbo.

Many like Maqajela Hlaatsane, a 54-year-old mother, are struggling. With years of experience in the industry, she used to rely on her job to support her family. Now, she’s left hunting for work, holding a water bottle to trick her stomach into feeling full while rationing food for her children. “My family can’t survive on water alone,” she says.

The government’s response has been to declare a national state of disaster, aiming to find financial support and create jobs. Yet, uncertainty looms large. The New York Times recently reported that almost 12,000 garment workers face job losses due to these tariffs, impacting not just them, but entire communities reliant on the factories.

Lesotho’s economic ties to the U.S. were once buoyed by the African Growth and Opportunity Act (AGOA), which allowed duty-free exports of textiles. Under this program, Lesotho exported about $237 million in goods to the U.S. last year, while imports from the U.S. were a mere $3 million. Despite this, the trade imbalance prompted harsh tariffs that have largely crippled the industry.

Trade Minister Mokhethi Shelile argues that the tariffs have undermined the potential benefits of AGOA. “If you cut it, it will surely hit even the U.S. itself,” he warns, emphasizing the interconnectedness of the global supply chain. His sentiment echoes a concern shared by many companies and communities who are now on edge.

In the streets, the mood is palpable. Workers express their worries about Trump’s comments, which many feel dismissed the importance of their home country. Young women like Ntsoaki Heqoa and Mapaseka Mohale share their frustrations, wishing they could communicate the dire situation directly to him.

Levi’s factory still operates, but even there, workers fear cuts. Mpolai Sementhe, who has worked in the factory for years, jokingly notes that she’s never owned a pair of the jeans she helps create. Meanwhile, a nearby factory that used to send 2,000 workers home has now closed entirely. Companies are hesitant to place new orders, fearing uncertainty due to the tariffs.

In conversations with shopkeepers and cobblers near the factories, it’s clear that the economic ripple effects of job losses are far-reaching. People who supply goods and services to workers are starting to feel the pinch, too. One cobbler mentions that business has slowed down as workers pull back their spending.

Maqajela expresses her fears about the “short time,” a term used for reduced working hours leading to cut pay. Many women in Lesotho also face health challenges, with high HIV rates complicating their situations. Access to healthcare has dwindled due to funding cuts from the U.S., leaving many without vital services.

As the sun sets, the once-bustling streets now bear the weight of uncertainty. Maboitumelo Ramakatane, who has sewn for nearly two decades, clings to hope. “We are on our knees…” she says, expressing desperation and a plea for change. Her story is not just hers; it reflects the trials of many in Lesotho whose lives hang in the balance due to global economic decisions.

Lesotho remains a poignant example of how international policy can shape lives at the local level, connecting far-flung economies in complex ways.

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