She is remarkably skilled at turning one tough situation after another into a feeling of having won the lottery. While many people, even those who are much younger, would have given up at the first or second obstacle, or never dared to begin such a journey at all, she seemed to find genuine joy in every challenge that came her way.
Reading her story reminded me of our Talking Circle, in which everything that could go wrong is transformed into a high jump.

Here is just one example of my mother’s journey.
It was already late at night when she wanted to enter her hotel room, but the key that had worked perfectly an hour earlier no longer worked. No one was around. No guests, no hosts. It was one of those hotels that are remotely managed from somebody’s home.

Instead of worrying about her safety, becoming angry that the lovely room with its comfortable bed remained unreachable behind a locked door, or panicking about where she would spend the night, she looked around, and concluded that the staircase was nearly perfect for sleeping. After all, it had a decent carpeted floor.
What more could one ask for?
Well, as I already mentioned, my mother has always been exceptionally good at turning setbacks into something beautiful.

And this is exactly a quality that social change-makers also need to master.
We practice this transformation in our problem definition workshop using a tool named the Talking Circle.
Each participant draws a chit with an emotion written on it: jealousy, sadness, loneliness, anger, helplessness, or exclusion. They then tell a personal story in which this emotion played a major role.
Others ask questions, and at times, while responding to these deeply personal reflections, participants begin to realize that experiences which once troubled them can, in hindsight, be understood as valuable.

Jealousy often turns into: “Well, it opened my eyes to this crook and gave me the freedom to tell myself to get the hell out of this prison-like relationship!”
Loneliness transforms into: “I discovered that I didn’t need others to give me self-worth. I already had a strong personality to rely on.”
And exclusion becomes: “How wonderful that I found out who my true friends are, and who I should avoid in the future.”

What we should not do, however, is downplay the problem itself. That would not do it justice.
There is nothing good we can extract from war, poverty, violence against marginalized people, environmental destruction, or the loss of beloved friends or family members.
The Talking Circle is not about glorifying or ignoring suffering. It is about dealing with emotions.

The emotion is there and, in most cases, it is entirely justified. After all, it is our personal experience and our genuine feeling. But emotions can trigger different kinds of reactions and actions. We can despair. We could get stuck, or we can reflect, learn, and eventually overcome it.

The past week brought several emotional ups and downs.
In memory of David Olendo, our 2025 participant who passed away on 18 June last year, we all stood silently while our Kenyan participants planted a coconut tree in his honour. It was a wish expressed by his daughter, who remains in touch with Mary and Paul.

As we watched, we listened to the birds and to Faith’s Swahili song about strength and overcoming pain. It reminded me of last year, when we sat together on the roof terrace, sharing the pain of losing a very kind and deeply respected participant, and promising each other that we would integrate a piece of David’s dream, protecting nature, into all our individual projects.

And, as if fate likes to bundle all sorrows together, we were shaken by news from the family of one of this year’s participants, who had lost beloved family members due to a fatal medical decision. For the sister and for her twins, we planted three mango trees next to David’s coconut palm. And perhaps, a few years from now, all those who wish to remember them can sit in the cool shade of these trees and reflect on life, both before and after the loss.

As sad as we all were, we also felt unity, solidarity, and care.

Closing this piece on a lighter note, and returning to my mother’s adventure, you may be wondering whether she actually spent the night in an empty staircase.
No, she didn’t.
She made one final attempt to find someone who couldn’t speak her language, but who could help her solve the riddle of the key that didn’t fit. Together, they discovered that she was simply on the wrong floor.
After going up one more staircase, the key magically unlocked the door and opened the entrance to a now even more welcoming room with large windows overlooking all the sites she could visit after a good night’s sleep.

Sometimes, perhaps, we are not locked out at all.
Sometimes, we simply stand on the wrong floor.

Read more blog posts here
learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post Sometimes we are simply on the wrong floor first appeared on kanthari.

For those who are new to kanthari, participants deliver three Dream Speeches during the course. The first one is presented shortly after arrival, the second after Act Two, when their concepts have taken shape, and the third and final speech is delivered during the kanthari TALKS in December.
While the kanthari TALKS are presented to a global audience and live-streamed around the world, the first speech happens right here on campus. Yet there is a catch.
Participants never know whether they will be first, second, third, or last. They simply have to be ready.

The music, composed by Richard Strauss and made famous worldwide through Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey, has become part of a kanthari ritual. Seventeen generations of participants have heard it, and many alumni still report an immediate surge of adrenaline whenever those first notes begin to play.

Did you know that public speaking is consistently ranked among humanity’s greatest fears? In many studies, it scores alongside the fear of serious illness or losing loved ones.
But why? Are people really afraid of speaking itself? Of forgetting their words? Of going blank? Or are we afraid of something much deeper?
Perhaps we fear being judged. Embarrassing ourselves. Being rejected by our community because we express something that others may not agree with.

Against this backdrop, it becomes easier to understand what we ask of our newly arrived participants. After just one week on campus, they are expected to stand on a stage in front of an audience they barely know. A video camera records every word. A group of catalysts sits in front of them, typing observations into their laptops while participants essentially turn themselves inside out. And that brings us to the topic of this first speech.
The assignment is simple, at least on paper:
Speak for ten minutes about the problem you want to solve, your personal story, and the solution you envision.

Phew! That is a lot to ask. None of these topics are easy.

I have written before about how difficult it is to define a problem clearly. Describing a solution that has not yet been fully developed is a challenge in itself. But speaking about one’s own life? About painful memories, turning points, disappointments, fears, and experiences that may have been carefully locked away for years? And then sharing all of this with people you hardly know? Isn’t that asking too much at such an early stage?

Looking at the speeches presented this week, I have to say: no.
We asked a lot, but we asked it from exactly the right people.
One after another stepped onto the stage. Some were more nervous than others, some more structured, and some better prepared.
But every single one of them accomplished one of the most courageous acts a person can undertake: speaking publicly while remaining true to themselves.

They spoke freely from their hearts. They entrusted us with their deepest vulnerabilities, their physical and psychological wounds, without drifting into self-pity. They stood there calm, factual, confident, and powerful. Many shared their personal stories for the very first time. Stories of neglect, homelessness, exclusion, discrimination, violence, and persecution. And yet, within every story there was something remarkable: Hope.

There was always a way forward. A refusal to see themselves as victims. A determination to transform hardship into a broader goal.
Among this year’s participants are survivors of rape, violence, loneliness, societal pressure, poverty, war, discrimination, and the devastating effects of climate change. Yet none of them chose to remain defined by what happened to them. Instead, they drew strength from their struggles and transformed painful experiences into ideas for change.

Watching them speak so openly during their very first Dream Speech, I am reminded of my own first public appearances, speeches, readings, and television interviews during the early days of our Braille Without Borders time in Tibet. I still remember how painful it was to speak about difficult moments: the discrimination from classmates after I lost my sight, the challenges of building our school for the blind, or not being taken seriously by German officials.
These were challenging experiences that had to be told because they shaped who we are today.
But only with time and practice was I able to detach myself from reliving the pain while speaking. It took hundreds of speeches before I could talk about these experiences without being overwhelmed by feelings of anger, hurt, or embarrassment, while still telling the story in a way that made it feel as immediate as if it had happened only yesterday.

Their speeches gave a promising first impression, and I am already looking forward to the kanthari TALKS in December. (11 & 12 Dec 2026)

learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/
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The post kanthari – Courage to Speak first appeared on kanthari.

Students around the world are given strict policies. They become remarkably skilled at bending rules, tweaking regulations, and turning loophole-hunting into an Olympic sport. But here is the catch: participants at kanthari are not here to become better students. They are here because they want to build and run their own organisations one day. And founders face very different challenges.
Students operate within systems. Founders create them, maintain them, and deal with the consequences when those systems break down. This difference becomes particularly visible whenever we discuss campus rules, usually during the first phase.
We can spend hours explaining why a rule exists. We can provide examples, scenarios, consequences, and examples from earlier years. Everyone nods. Everyone understands.
And then, in the past, sometimes even on the very same evening, some participants started brainstorming how to get around the very rule they just agreed was perfectly reasonable.

One recurring example, and a source of mild headaches for the team, is food delivery.
The kanthari kitchen prepares meals that are healthy, nutritious, and often surprisingly adventurous. Most participants appreciate the effort, the fresh ingredients, and the wonderful blend of Kerala and international flavours.
But homesickness occasionally strikes.
Someone misses ugali.
Someone dreams of fufu.
Someone longs for zaza.
And someone suddenly develops a deep emotional attachment to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

The moment dinner arrives without the desired comfort food, stomachs begin to panic, and perhaps as a lingering post-COVID reflex, fingers start twitching nervously toward the nearest food delivery app.
You may think: what’s the harm? Let them enjoy their favourite meal. Wish them “Bon Appétit” and move on.
Fair enough! In fact, participants are completely free to go out for dinner whenever they wish.

The challenge begins when food is delivered to campus.
Because every takeaway meal arrives with an invisible side dish: WASTE!
Pizza boxes covered in melted cheese and tomato sauce.
Containers coated with sticky gravies…
Chicken bones dripping grease…
Plastic wrappers decorated with chocolate cream…
Paper bags filled with soggy French fries.
Disposable dirty cutlery.
Basically, all leftovers of convenience.

In some countries, people throw this waste away and they magically disappear.
Here, reality works differently.
We do not live inside a sophisticated waste-management vacuum.

Every improperly disposed piece of waste launches a festival of decomposers.
First come the ants. Their highway system is highly effective and usually leads directly to the room of the culprit. Then the cockroaches start organising themselves.
The geckos arrive to hunt the cockroaches. The rats follow everyone.
And because we happen to live in the tropics, where there are rats, there is good chance for rat snakes to peak around the corner as well…
At this point, the pizza that seemed like such a brilliant idea has evolved into a small ecological hazard.
To be fair, the ants, geckos, rats, and snakes are all simply doing their jobs.
The only species in this chain that occasionally struggles to connect actions with consequences is the human, and in this case, the founder(s)-in-training.

Which brings us back to the question: Why do rules exist?
Not because kanthari enjoyed creating them.
Not because we want to deny participants their beloved KFC.
But because every action creates consequences, and we believe future founders must learn to think beyond their immediate desires.

I remember a crisis meeting years ago in Tibet with our blind students. The children, aged six to twelve, were protesting against washing dishes. Fortunately, even back then, paul and I already believed in experiential learning. So, we agreed. No more dishwashing!
The first two days went surprisingly well, however then the stock of clean plates and cups ran out… The powerful Tibetan sun began warming the dirty plates scattered around the courtyard. A rather noticeable smell emerged which attracted a squadron of flies..

After preparing meals for the students, Paul and I decided to invite our house parents to enjoy some street food, outside the school. But at night we all started hearing high pitched squeaking sounds. Tibetan rats are considerably larger than their Indian relatives, and because they face relatively few dangers, they can become remarkably confident, and occasionally quite aggressive.
After enjoying the buffet in our courtyard, they began exploring the children’s dormitories in search of further entertainment. And by the third day, the children unanimously declared the experiment finished.
From that day forward, all dishes, pots and pans, cups and cutlery were cleaned with great passion!

Yes, we could try the same experiment here. But for some reason, most participants do not seem particularly eager to cuddle up with a snake in their bedroom.

So instead, we try to activate their imagination. Perhaps that is why one of the most important lessons at kanthari is not about social entrepreneurship at all.
It is learning the difference between a student and a founder.
Students ask themselves:
“How can I get around this rule?”
Founders ask: “Why does this rule exist, and what would happen if everyone ignored it?”

More kanthari blogs:

The post Mind the Bumps: Entering Founder Territory first appeared on kanthari.

Since all the catalysts are guiding specific participants through the journey in 5 acts, it is important to clarify where we start and where we are heading towards.

Most of our participants come here because they have personally experienced a problem, sometimes even existential danger. They arrive with an idea they believe is the solution to the painful experiences they have lived through.

And this is exactly where the challenge begins.
Last week, during one session of the preparatory course in which we spoke about their stakeholders, we asked a simple question:
“What is the problem you want to solve?”
Almost all of them answered with some version of:
“My objective is to…”
It quickly became clear that understanding the difference between a problem and a solution is not easy.
Having goals and objectives is wonderful. But before anything else, we must understand the actual problem.

Going forward, every tool we introduce, every question we ask, and every step we take needs to be built on the foundation of the problem they want to solve. All we ask the participants is to begin with is a simple problem statement, one or two sentences that clearly explain where the problem exists, what the problem is, why it matters, and who is affected.

Once the problem becomes clear, we begin to define:
– Who are the people most affected by this problem, and who would benefit from a possible solution? What are their needs? What are their stories?
– Who are the people with the power to create change? Who needs to be convinced, influenced, or mobilized?
And finally:
– who are the partners they want to work with? What kind of team do they need around them?

Only when these questions become clearer can we slowly begin to approach possible solutions. And even that will only happen about six weeks into Act 1.
But even then, we move step by step.
First, participants learn to zoom out. They begin to shape a broad vision, the change they wish to see in the world, and from there, a mission: the larger strategy that could eventually lead toward that vision.

And then, the famous ‘kanthari washing machine’ begins its cycle.
Through a deceptively simple game, participants discover that the ideas they were once deeply attached to are often rather conventional, predictable, and sometimes even ‘boring’ responses to a now much more deeply understood problem.

Finding the right solution does not happen in a single moment of inspiration. It is usually a slow, sometimes painful, but steady journey toward identifying the right intervention.
We call this process “concept transformation.”
And concept transformation begins with critical questions, questions that all of us need to help gather and sharpen throughout these first six weeks.

So, whenever we hear participants rushing toward solutions, we gently guide them back to the foundation: the problem that truly needs to be solved, and the people who would genuinely benefit from their interventions.
We try to help the participants understand that there is little value in jumping too quickly to conclusions. We give them the space and time to discover the deeper reasons why they chose to be at kanthari.
The week has already started with a lot of positive energy and vibes,
Greeting you from the roof,

sabriye

Read more kanthari blog posts on: https://www.kanthari.org/coronablog/

The post Sounds of new beginnings – Blog first appeared on kanthari.

Dear friends and supporters,
Elie Mastaki, a young Congolese change-maker, spoke with quiet strength about his country’s breathtaking beauty; fire-spitting volcanoes, the world’s second-largest rainforest, mighty rivers, and vast lakes. He also addressed the conflict in Goma, fueled by global demand for resources powering our electricity, batteries, and daily lives.

Elie ended his talk on a positive note by describing Elikia, his organization, which means “hope” in Lingala, empowering youth as ethical leaders and peace ambassadors. Now back in the conflict zone, he continues this vital work.

To many of us, celebrating Christmas in relative safety and calm, Elie left one simple message, shared with a warm smile: “Don’t take peace for granted.”

With his words, and a small poem we created for Elie and all those who engage in the critical mission to bring about positive change, we wish you peaceful holidays, good health, and inspiration for the year to come.

May the season remind us that peace is precious, responsibility is shared, and hope can grow even in the most fragile places.

TO TALK ABOUT PEACE

“To talk about peace
is not a big deal.
We are used to these phrases
from leaders who feel
that their monologues matter,
WE ALL can do better!
To make peace needs real action,
and only a fraction
of all we can do,
will in future shine through!”

To get a better understanding of Elie’s story, you can watch his kanthari

With lots of gratitude for your ongoing support and warmest regards,
sabriye and paul

You can watch Elie’s kanthari TALK here

The post Happy Holidays wishes from kanthari first appeared on kanthari.

“Good morning, Muhwezi. I heard Sabondo, your brother, is no more. He died last night.” This is the message I received while I was in India attending the Kanthari leadership course, far away from my family.

I was born and raised in Kabale District, southwestern Uganda, in the Kigezi region, famous for mountain gorillas, high hills, deep valleys, and swamps along Lake Bunyonyi, the second deepest in Africa. But behind the beauty of the landscape lies a community with generational poverty, school dropouts, and forgotten youths. I was one of these forgotten youths.

I come from a family of 11 children, 5 boys and 6 girls, and I’m the eldest. Nine children are biological, and 2 are adopted orphans. Of the 11, 5 never studied beyond primary school, 4 never completed secondary education, and the last born is still in school. Unfortunately, one of my biological brothers died this year in June 2025. He was a school dropout too, like many other youths in our community, with no livelihood skills. He dropped out because our parents could not manage school costs for us all.

This struggle is not unique to my family. It is shared by many in our community. Families face heartbreaking decisions over which children to send to school. Poverty, hunger, and limited land resources make education a dream many can’t reach. I remember walking 10 km to school and back home hungry, alongside my younger siblings, relatives, and friends, most of whom eventually dropped out. It was hard to watch my siblings and friends leave school. Many dropouts fall into addiction, child labor, prostitution, or early marriages, which lead to teen parenthood and yet another generation of children missing out on education.

When I completed a diploma, finding a job wasn’t easy. I tried joining the army, but I had no luck. I tried getting security jobs abroad, it didn’t work out. Eventually, a former lecturer helped me land a teaching job in Rwanda. While in Rwanda, I met a pig farmer who was transforming his community. Inspired by his passion, I started my own small initiative, giving 15 piglets to 15 families as a pilot project. It worked well until COVID-19 hit. With no income, families sold the pigs just to survive.

The memory of my siblings and friends missing out on education stayed with me. I kept asking myself, what can be done to support school dropouts, earn an income, rebuild their confidence, and find hope again?

While in Rwanda, I planned to quit employment and do something in my community with the youth, but I got a short-term contract for 5 months in Burundi, with plans to end my employment career and go back home to my community. Only after one month on the job, the COVID lockdown started, and everything changed negatively. While in Burundi, I had time to reflect on my passion of empowering school dropouts. That’s when I decided to quit employment completely, and start an initiative that empowers youth and Children.

Returning home without tools, skills, or a workplace, I began by persuading local workshop owners to informally train interested youths. With no experience running an organization, I started volunteering online to learn. During my search, I discovered Goodness Mercy Missions from Cameroon. Later, the founder recommended that I attend kanthari’s impact leadership training program in India.

At kanthari, I further developed my vision and created my organization, Jacana. The Jacana is a bird known for its ability to walk on water plants, symbolizing the empowerment of youth in my region to become “water walkers.”
Are you curious to learn more? Look out for kanthari TALKS 2025, where I will present my intervention to the world.

Read more kanthari blog posts on: https://www.kanthari.org/coronablog/

The post Leadership Rooted in rural Ugandan Community first appeared on kanthari.

That day, my body became a broken compass spinning in pain, directionless, beneath a mango tree. I had tried to walk, but my legs had turned to water and my sight to fog. Just as I surrendered to the silence, a stranger appeared and gave me a second chance. Set a path that would lead me to fight the disease that had almost stolen my future.
I grew up in Kindimba Juu, a beautiful small village surrounded by hills and rivers winding through the fertile land. My parents were farmers, growing maize and beans. We lived in a small mud house with a thatched roof and just two rooms. Kindimba Juu was dotted with small water pools, and mosquitoes were thriving. Malaria was a constant shadow in our lives. I would hear the word in nearly every household conversation, especially during the rainy season. My mother often said, “In this village, malaria isn’t a question of if, it’s when.” We knew little about prevention, and our only hope was the small local dispensary when someone fell sick.

I still remember when my 13-year-old cousin came down with malaria. He shivered violently, vomited for days, and grew weaker with each hour. His parents believed he had been bewitched and took him to a traditional healer. Shortly after arriving, he fainted for three hours. Before they could take him to a hospital, it was too late. He died before ever seeing a doctor. The entire village mourned him.

At the age of 10 years, I left the village and moved to Lindi to pursue my secondary education. My boarding school was surrounded by ponds, and combined with the warm climate, it created an ideal environment for mosquitoes to breed. The mosquito nets we had were old and torn, offering little protection.

One morning, I woke up dizzy, with a pounding headache and trembling hands. I hoped the symptoms would pass, but the pain only worsened. I knew it was malaria. The nearest health center was more than an hour away, and with no guardian or transport, I began to walk alone.

After thirty minutes, my legs weakened. My vision blurred. I collapsed beneath a mango tree beside the road to the farms, drenched in sweat and shivering. I lay there for nearly three hours. Eventually, a stranger found me. He asked, “Why are you sleeping under this mango tree?” In a faint voice, I replied, “I’m too dizzy to walk. I need to get to the hospital.” He lifted me onto his bicycle and slowly pedaled me to the nearest clinic. When he found out my parents couldn’t afford the treatment, he took me to his home and cared for me until I recovered. I owe my life to his kindness.

During my four years in secondary school, I contracted malaria over ten times, even during national exams. Sitting in class with dizziness, headaches, and shivering felt like a daily habit.

Fortunately, things began to change when I moved on to high school, which was in a colder climate with fewer mosquitoes. My teacher encouraged me to submit a project idea for a national science competition. The memories of battling malaria came flooding back. I was determined to find a solution that could help protect my community from this suffering. I began researching plants with mosquito repellent properties, reading scientific papers, articles, and speaking to doctors.

Lemongrass was identified as one of the most effective natural repellents. I extracted its oil and created a prototype mosquito repellent that could protect against mosquito bites for up to eight hours. I presented my project at the national scientific conference and won. From that moment on, I knew I had found my passion. I studied vector control and founded a business for organic mosquito repellents. Through this, I want to offer vulnerable communities access to effective malaria prevention.

Driven by my struggles and my passion for empowering vulnerable communities, I came to kanthari to gain the skills, vision, and network needed to expand my impact so that no child collapses alone, and no parent loses a child to a preventable bite.

Read more kanthari blog posts on: https://www.kanthari.org/coronablog/

The post When Malaria Struck, Purpose Awakened first appeared on kanthari.

I was in my third year, trapped in a lecture hall I hated. The professor was talking about complex formulas, but all I heard was noise. I felt like a fraud pretending to be a student. I looked again at the photograph of our village’s only clinic at the back of my notebook and remembered my father’s words, “This is why you’re going.” These words felt like a life sentence. When the class ended, I made a choice. I stood up, walked out, and never looked back.

I spent my childhood lost in my own perfect, self-made world. I would add details from the wealthy homes we visited and stories I overheard and share them with my friends. They often called me delusional. This made me spend time in our backyard alone, using charcoal to draw on the brick wall. I’d talk to myself, giggle, and laugh alone. Our neighbours noticed and told my mom that only “possessed” children acted that way. From then on, she would beat me whenever she found me playing alone, asking if I was having a party with spirits.

I didn’t dare to express my goals because my teachers and father had manufactured them for me already. Being a nurse, my father was dedicated to our village, even building a local clinic. He would wake me up at 3 am to say, “Esther, you must become a doctor to continue this work; who knows? You may be the one to lift this family.” I felt immense responsibility to everyone, but especially to him. Yet, in the privacy of my room, I wrote stories about becoming an artist.

My family’s investments in extra lessons and my dedicated studying paid off when I got accepted into the country’s best medical college. The news led to a village-wide celebration, with elders thanking me for my hard work, and the youth admired me, believing I had it all figured out.

Then came a life-threatening diagnosis, and I had to go through surgery. On the way back from the hospital, I saw an art studio by the roadside. I couldn’t stop thinking about the images I’d only seen for seconds. I begged my parents to let me go there. Though they were hesitant, they wanted me to recover quickly and agreed. For two months, I went twice a week. Those were the best days of my teenage years, and I understood that art was valuable.

Upon recovery, I had to go to university. Financially, I was different from most students; while they spent their evenings socializing, I sold food under a small umbrella by the roadside. My memories of joy in the art studio made me realise that I didn’t want to be a doctor, but I didn’t want to disappoint my family either. Three years in, I decided to withdraw from school. My family was shocked and heartbroken. My only brother stopped speaking to me, and the little support I had from home stopped to make me ‘come to my senses’. Weeks turned into months; I was alone, facing an uncertain future.

I returned to my drawing board and felt alive again. I taught myself to paint, make shoes, bake, and design digitally. I was able to freelance, showcase my artworks in exhibitions, and open my studio.
This new sense of purpose allowed me to save enough money to travel with a friend to Owo, where we planned to teach other young people. We found that the youth there were idle and lacked purpose. We connected with them at a public school where I secretly slept in a classroom, waking up before the students arrived to avoid being discovered.

Recognizing a skills gap, we started teaching everything we knew, from baking to craft and catering. The youth started transforming: the skills they gained gave them a new sense of purpose and direction, and many of them became successful business owners. Their mindsets shifted, and they began to feel valued.

In rural Nigeria, teenage girls face systemic barriers that crush their potential. With 40-50% of young women not in education, employment, or training, and child marriage rates double those in urban areas, many girls find their futures cut short. One in five Nigerian girls aged 15-19 are already mothers, often abandoning education for domestic responsibilities.

The core challenges are deeply rooted: patriarchal norms that devalue female education, lack of career guidance and role models, and financial constraints that leave families seeing no value in investing in girls’ futures. While existing programs offer vocational training, there’s a critical gap in developing the curiosity, resilience, and self-leadership skills girls need to create their own paths. Now, my mission is bridging this gap, empowering rural Nigerian girls with confidence and vision to chart fulfilling lives.

Read more kanthari blog posts on: https://www.kanthari.org/coronablog/

The post The Day I Walked Out, And Found Myself first appeared on kanthari.

Imagine overhearing your grandparents worrying about where to borrow money so you can go to the hospital while you’re lying sick in bed? That was me as a child. I felt like a burden. My grandparents had spent everything they had, but my health just wouldn’t improve. I was helpless, and I kept wondering why I was always the one who was sick.

My name is Adelaide Bih. I was born to a single mother in the early 1990s, while she was still a university student. When I was just 7 months old, I went to live with my grandparents.
Growing up with them in Wum, the Northwest region of Cameroon, I was sick almost all the time. Sometimes I was hospitalized, but often, because we had no money, I stayed home and took herbal remedies. At age 8, my mother invited me to Bafoussam for the holidays. There, I finally saw a cardiologist. He gave me a lot of medicine, but what I remember most is a fizzy orange juice that came with my pills. I actually looked forward to my medicine because I loved that sweet drink. My health stabilized for a while, and I lived with my mother for three more years before moving back to my grandparents because my mum was appointed to a school far away.

Through all these health struggles, I made myself a promise: I would become a medical doctor. I wanted to understand my condition, care for myself, and help others get access to healthcare. I worked hard and passed all my exams. In August 2009, I sat for the entrance exam to medical school and succeeded. I was thrilled. My dream was getting closer. In 2015, when I was 23 years old, I graduated with a master’s in clinical biology. I was fortunate to get a job working at the Tuberculosis Reference Laboratory of Bamenda Regional Hospital in May 2016.

At the hospital, I met many people who were alone and couldn’t pay their bills. Some didn’t get their medication because they lacked financial means. Having been there myself, I did what I could to help. But then, seven months later, on December 8, 2016, the Anglophone Crisis began. What had started as a peaceful teachers’ and lawyers’ protest turned into a deadly conflict between the government and separatists. By late 2017, things were violent, homes burned, people killed, and everything changed.

The crisis became personal when I lost a close friend in a crossfire. The grief was intense. I couldn’t stop crying or sleeping, and it was hard to accept he was gone. Even now, the memory hurts. For my safety, I fled to Yaoundé, a city I barely knew, facing an uncertain future.

In Yaoundé, I stayed with a friend and relied entirely on her family. I spent months, then a year, applying for jobs, but nothing came up. I felt frustrated and desperate to be independent. So, I began volunteering at my friend’s sister’s association, the Afrogiveness Movement, which was still being set up. This organization supports internally displaced people and refugees.

One day, during our outreach, I met a young mother of five. She was 27, but her oldest child wasn’t even six. Three children were hers, and the other two belonged to her late sister, who had died from lack of healthcare. The two sisters had run from the Anglophone Crisis after their home was burned down, eventually renting a single room with an outside toilet in Yaoundé. They survived by selling food until the older sister fell ill. With no money, she tried self-medicating and traditional remedies, but nothing worked, and she died.

Hearing her story was a painful reminder of my own struggles, of what happens when sickness and poverty meet. That was my turning point. I couldn’t just stand by. Instead of letting my medical skills go unused, I decided to act. I co-founded a walk-in health center that would offer free or affordable care, health education, and psychosocial counseling to crisis victims and low-income families.

My journey, filled with pain and hope, convinced me that no one should die because they cannot afford help. This is why I do what I do.

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The post When Sickness meets poverty – health care in Cameroon first appeared on kanthari.

In 1997, at a CITES conference held at the Harare Sheraton, a young woman’s powerful voice captivated the room. Her singing moved dignitaries, diplomats, and even the president, capturing the heart of the nation and unsettling one man confined to a life of limitations. When I approached her, introducing myself, she seemed uninterested and refused me. But that “no” did not end anything, instead, it sparked a connection that would grow into something life-changing.

Before love found me, I was a child born into a world that did not know how to love people living with disabilities. I was not confident then; I internalized my energy, anger, and bitterness. My parents noticed something was wrong within months after I was born, I failed to achieve basic developmental milestones, my hands were too weak to hold anything, and my right leg was thin, twisted, and deformed. My disability was viewed as punishment from ancestors, witchcraft, or a curse.

My mother knew that caring for me would be exhausting and expensive, likely a lifelong burden. The last resort was a children’s home founded by Jairos Jiri in the 1950s, where disabled and abandoned children were taken. Jairos Jiri made us believe we had a father but no mother. My parents signed the adoption papers, effectively relinquishing their rights, and visits were allowed, though I was no longer truly their child. I missed the bond between mother and child, taken away when it mattered most.

Throughout childhood, I underwent multiple surgeries to correct deformities, including artificial bones in my right leg when I was about fourteen. During this time, my mother and aunt visited and eventually “kidnapped” me from the home, hiding me in a rural village. Though arrested briefly, my mother’s love drove her to become my self-trained nurse, teaching me to walk, balance, and strengthen my fingers. Through pain and struggle, we built trust, though tension filled our home. I felt disconnected, believing my family were strangers and resenting my condition and even God. School was harsh; bullied, taunted, and excluded.

Being different makes children more vulnerable to bullying. Physical weakness, communication challenges, or low self-esteem can make it hard to stand up to peers. Craig Dani, born with spina bifida, a birth defect where the spinal cord doesn’t close during pregnancy, faces neurological challenges and relentless bullying.
When I met Craig, his face lit with anticipation as his grandmother lifted him. But when visitors arrived, he was quickly withdrawn inside, shielded from strangers. Craig’s mother eloped at sixteen and was told bleakly that his quality of life would be poor. She was advised to terminate the pregnancy but lacked full information. Tears welled as she recounted these moments.

Hundreds of disabled children like Craig are hidden in Zimbabwe out of shame and stigma. His attempts to enrol in government schools led to constant bullying, name-calling, blame, beatings, and exclusion. Despite this, his determination to learn and make friends kept him going.

Craig explained that some pupils laughed or feared him because of his differences, but he never took it personally. Poverty compounded his challenges; unemployed parents could not afford qualified teachers and relied on untrained help. Nearby schools lacked resources, knowledge, and adaptive curricula, leaving him underserved.
Disability in Zimbabwe means courage, facing exclusion in daily life: shame of leaving the house, difficulty expressing thoughts, health costs, limited mobility, bullying, lack of rehab services, poor transport, and discrimination. Yet Craig remains determined to pass exams and advance his education.

He’s mocked endlessly, called a “vampire” or “alien” for using a wheelchair. Each day brings dread and physical sickness at the thought of walking into school, despite teachers knowing about the bullying. Like my mother, Craig’s mother endured harsh community judgment but stood firm.
Today Craig spends most of his time in the house away from the public eye, reading his books as he hopes to be a medical doctor someday. Soon he will be writing his examinations and possibly go for the upper 6, then to college. All he wants is education, which will lead him to the Promised Land. In parting, Craig asked me to help him write a book on disability. I knelt down to be on the same wheelchair level, gave him a hug, and he smiled, then, I assured him that nothing was too difficult for the brave!

Having gone through all I went through, I channelled my pain into purpose by founding the Zimbabwe Anti-Bullying Society (ZABS) as well as launching a lifesaving medical emergency service for the disabled.

Each time I unlock my phone, a photo of Jairos Jiri reminds me of the debt of gratitude I owe him for changing my life.

Read more kanthari blog posts on: https://www.kanthari.org/coronablog/

The post Breaking Barriers: Archford’s Triumph Over Disability and Bullying first appeared on kanthari.