The post quarterly newsletter 1 – 2026 first appeared on kanthari.

The post quarterly newsletter 4 – 2025 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.

The post quarterly newsletter 3 – 2025 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.

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

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.

Every story has a beginning, and mine traces a journey across continents, cultures, and hard-won transformations. Raised in a small mining village by my grandparents, I spent my childhood herding cattle with friends under the Matibi sun, blissfully unaware of the burdens that would soon come. My father moved to Botswana as an auto electrician after losing his farm; my mother worked tirelessly in Harare. Eventually, at age 11 I joined my father in Botswana, confronting the realities of a fractured family and the quiet pressure to work hard and provide.

I was always the quiet, reserved type, but even as a child, I loved making and fixing things. I’d pull apart old electronics at my dad’s workshop, seriously curious about how everything worked, even if I could hardly ever put anything back together again. That “hands-on” streak just stuck with me. But then life took a serious turn after high school. I ended up studying abroad, mostly by myself and totally out of my comfort zone. Going to university in China was eye-opening. For the first time, I had real freedom and experienced new cultures. And, I realized I wasn’t the only one dealing with matters like my parents’ divorce or family worries; lots of other people had similar struggles too.

Returning to Zimbabwe, unemployment loomed, but frustration spurred resourcefulness: I taught myself web development and helped others from home. When I learned about the Friends For Matibi Trust, inspiration struck. Why not design practical solutions for real needs, like a stackable hydroponic system for small spaces, drawing on my father’s farming legacy? Soon, leading a permaculture initiative in Matibi, I recognized the power of collective support, community-led learning, and practical skills.

Today, I am driven by the belief that communities can transform themselves if given the tools, support, and belief. My journey from shy observer to Innovation Lead and permaculture advocate proves that sometimes, it takes a chance and a space where people can learn, share, and thrive together. But who would benefit from such a space?

In the sun-baked lands of Mwenezi, teenagers follow a familiar routine: school, herding cattle, and chores. After Form 4, paths are unclear; many girls wait for marriage, and many boys search for partners. Opportunities are few, and life mostly continues as it always has.
This is where Simba’s story begins. I met him after he finished school, a quiet boy, sent by his parents to help where he could. Initially, he didn’t stand out. He moved softly, his presence gentle but sharp if you paid attention. He rarely spoke, but when he did, it mattered.

After a month, Simba caught my attention with a simple statement: “My mum sent me here because I had nothing to do. I was planning to run away to South Africa once my parents were traveling. But now, I don’t want to anymore.”
I was surprised. What has changed?
He said, “I’ve found a reason to stay.”

In Matibi, that’s unusual. Few young people want to stay; most chase opportunities elsewhere. But something about our self-learning environment, being in tune with nature, and belonging to something real, awakened something in him. He found not just work but purpose.

From that moment, Simba began a journey of discovery. Life, like any journey, unfolds over time. His curiosity and desire to understand how things work pushed him to continue where school left off, taking on a construction project. This was a skill he had learned before, but as he delved deeper, he saw that building wasn’t just stacking bricks; it was about problem-solving, planning, and mastering a craft.

That same curiosity led him next to leather tanning. He started experimenting with raw goat hides from local events. It was messy and challenging, but he embraced it fully, eager to learn. Each challenge shaped him, building the young man he is today, not just one who stayed but one who found purpose in a place many overlook.

Looking ahead, I want to focus on equipping myself to lead a strong movement rooted in community, sustainability, and learning. With the skills and experience from kanthari, I aim to foster more initiatives like Simba’s in Matibi. By promoting self-designed learning and sustainable practices, I hope to create spaces that give young people reasons to stay, grow, and contribute to their communities. My journey and the transformations I’ve witnessed inspire me to help others write new stories of resilience and hope, right where they belong.

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

The post When Staying Becomes the Bravest Choice first appeared on kanthari.