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.

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.

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.

The Teacher Who Taught Us Dignity
The morning sun in Sesheke rises gently, warming the tin roofs of scattered homes. In one of these homes, modest but dignified, Mr. Charles begins his day. A retired primary school teacher of 68, his gait is slower now, his breath heavier, but his mind remains sharp, filled with memories of chalk dust, curious eyes, and the joy of shaping young minds.

I met Mr. Charles under the mango tree in his yard, where he often sits with a worn-out radio and a cup of unsweetened tea. His handshake was firm, and his eyes sparkled with the quiet resilience of a man who has weathered life’s storms. But as we spoke, the quiet toll of age and illness began to surface. “Every day is a challenge,” he told me, “but I try not to let the sickness win.”

Six years ago, Mr. Charles was diagnosed with hypertension and type 2 diabetes. Since then, life has changed dramatically. Once a respected figure in the classroom, he now lives with chronic fatigue, dizziness, and joint pain. The nearest clinic is over 15 kilometers away. He has no own means of transportation. “Sometimes I walk there and hope a car picks me up,” he said with a tired laugh. “It’s not easy.”

Managing his condition requires more than just medication but it also demands a disciplined diet, regular checkups, and rest. Balancing  this kind of lifestyle has become  hard for him. Healthy food is expensive, and traveling for medical care is even more difficult. Still, he receives support from his sons and daughters, who now live in different towns and cities. They send what they can from airtime, groceries, or a little cash. “They try,” he said, smiling faintly. “Even if it isn’t much, it helps me get by.”

As he spoke, what became most apparent wasn’t just the physical toll of his illness but also it was the ache for purpose. When I asked what he would do if he had more energy and support, his eyes lit up. “I would teach again. Not full-time, maybe just evening lessons for the village children. Or raise chicken. Something to make me feel useful again.”

That moment stayed with me. It was not just his health that had been compromised, but his sense of identity. Mr. Charles isn’t merely a patient or statistic, but he is a father, a mentor, a memory keeper. Yet he, like many other elderly men in Zambia, is slowly fading into the margins of society, his contributions forgotten and his wisdom overlooked.

This is where my initiative the Men’s Healthy Initiative comes in. It is designed to restore both health and dignity to elderly men like Mr. Charles. Through the initiative, healthcare will be brought closer to them by establishing mobile outreach services and transport assistance for clinic visits. Nutrition will be addressed by providing food packs tailored for people managing chronic illnesses, along with home garden kits to grow essential foods. Most importantly, the program will restore health,  purpose and offering support for small scale farming, and creating spaces for community engagement where retired men can mentor, teach, or share skills that still hold value.

Men like Mr. Charles are not burdens. They are the foundation of our communities. But stigma, poverty, and long neglect have worn them down. Medicine treats the body, but healing also comes from being seen, respected, and given the chance to matter again.

As I left his home, Mr. Charles handed me an old science reader, one he had used in his classroom many years ago. “Use it to teach someone,” he said. “Knowledge should never gather dust.”
His words have stayed with me not just because of the book, but because of the man behind it. I carry with me not only his story but a piece of his legacy. Some stories hit close to home. This one lives in my bones.
The Men’s Healthy Initiative is not just a response to a health crisis. It is a tribute to wisdom, to resilience, and to men like Mr. Charles who gave us their best years. It’s time we gave something back.
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Learn more about the kanthari course at: www.kantari.org

The post Knowledge Should Never Gather Dust – restoring dignity for Elderly men in Zambia first appeared on kanthari.

The post quarterly newsletter 2 – 2025 first appeared on kanthari.

The post quarterly newsletter 1 – 2025 first appeared on kanthari.

Tudu belongs to the Santhal tribe, one of the largest tribal communities in India. It is a tribe with its own language, cultural heritage, and religion. In school, he faced discrimination from students of other castes. In his own village, he observed serious problems such as alcoholism, poverty, and superstitious beliefs. Despite—or better, because of—the gap between his own culture and the “regular” Indian society, he managed to complete his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Anthropology and Tribal Studies. This motivated him to work for the upliftment and empowerment of his community by wanting to start a tribal school that opens opportunities to both worlds.

by Prashant Tudu,

The Village of Lakra Kol: Where Tradition Meets Nature

Lakra Kol is a village nestled on the bank of the Ghumani River, with a lush green forest covering Rajmal Hill on the other side. This village, belonging to the Santhal tribe in Jharkhand, has vast agricultural lands and is home to about 16–17 households, including mine. All these households rely on agriculture for their income. Like most children, I used to help my father prepare the soil in the fields before the sowing season. Every morning, I would take the cows to graze in the green fields. During the monsoon season, I loved fishing in small ponds using mosquito nets and bamboo baskets. In the afternoons, my friends and I would have fun climbing mango and jackfruit trees.

School Days: A Struggle for Basic Education

We all attended a local government school, walking through muddy roads and fields. There were about 200 to 300 tribal students and only 4 or 5 teachers. I went to school regularly for the mid-day meal provided there, and we would sit on the floor as there were no benches in the classrooms. During the harvest season, none of us went to school as we helped our parents with the crops. We had a lot of fun in school. I remember playing football with my friends, making balls from scrap fabric. Our teachers were very supportive. Before exams, they would tell us the questions and instruct us exactly what to write so that we could all pass.

High School: Facing Discrimination and Prejudice

Despite being an average student, I made it to high school, which was far from my village, where students from different communities studied together.
High school was not fun. I was discriminated against by the seniors, especially those from upper castes like Kurmi, Yadav, and Bhumihar. They would make me clean their rooms and run errands during my study time. I felt humiliated when a senior told me not to touch them. If I didn’t understand something in class and asked questions, the teacher would shout, “How many times do I need to tell you…?”

Battling Stereotypes and Finding Purpose

When I scored low marks, teachers would tell me to quit studying and work on the farms or in the mines instead. They even used abusive words against my tribe, such as ‘Sala Sotar,’ a derogatory term used by members of the upper castes to describe us tribals. It means that we are thieves of their resources. All this affected my studies, and I failed the 12th standard twice.

Breaking Through Barriers with Education

With constant encouragement from my parents, I passed high school and joined college for a bachelor’s degree in Anthropology and Tribal Studies. I was one of the few people from my village to earn a degree. During my studies and field visits, I came across many problems faced by tribal communities across India, such as lack of health facilities, poor infrastructure, tribal land grabbing, illicit alcohol brewing, superstitious beliefs, and more.
From my village, the nearest primary health center is more than 20 km away, and thus many get treatment from a Jhola chap (unqualified medical practitioner).

Alcoholism: A Deep-rooted Crisis in Tribal Life

Alcohol is a part of every tribal group. In my tribe, ‘Hadia’ (rice beer) is very popular, especially during the Sohrai and Baha festivals*.
Most men in my community are addicted to Hadia. They don’t go to work. I lost four family members due to excessive alcohol consumption. They started drinking at a young age. Once, I witnessed a horrific incident in my village. Two people killed a widow, accusing her of being a witch and practicing black magic. They prayed at our tribal worship place and boasted about killing the “witch.” We caught the perpetrators and handed them over to the police. That was when I promised myself to help my community overcome these problems that have held us back for so long. But the question is, where to start?

The Power of Education: A Dream to Transform Lives

I concluded that everything starts with education. And our education is based on our identity, our culture, and our myths. Let me take you on a quick journey through our genesis: The Santhal tribe believes that the earth is carried on the back of a tortoise. When the tortoise moves, the earth shakes. We worship nature, and our gods live among us in the forms of trees, stones, or animals. We have many beautiful sagas, but there is no space for this in regular schools. Tribal children grow up feeling that their culture is irrelevant. They live in two contradictory worlds and don’t belong to either.

A Vision for the Future: Checht Kuwak Aatu – The Learner’s Village

Therefore, my dream is to start “Checht Kuwak Aatu – The Learner’s Village.”
Here, we prepare preschool children for their journey through education. I call these young learners “Janum Bili,” after the small fruit that tastes so sweet.
The Learner’s Village consists of “Oraks,” small huts made from mud and bamboo. Since Santhal children have to live in various cultures, each Orak represents a different world. There is the Orak of the Santhal world, where our “Jamun Billis” only speak in Santali. Here, they learn how to read and write in the Olchiki script. Another Orak represents the Hindi world, and yet another the Foreign world, each with its languages and cultures, which they learn through theatre and games.

A Growing Dream: Expanding the Learner’s Village

In the future, I envision opening the Learner’s Village to older children, ages six to nine. I call them “Badidari Dari,” after a strong tree that grows in our forests and has medicinal leaves. They will learn all subjects in a very practical way. Mathematics will be taught through building huts and calculating height and space. Biology will be learned through forest walks and gardening.

A Bridge Between Two Worlds

Many children from my tribe drop out of school because non-tribal teachers fail to spark their curiosity. The subjects taught in a regular curriculum are little or not at all related to Santali tribal culture. Thus, I believe we need a bridge to help children gain confidence in their roots and feel comfortable learning new ideas. With a strong foundation in their own Santali world, they will be able to open up to the Hindi and foreign worlds. They will become mind travellers while always knowing where they belong.

(* Sohrai and Baha are two major festivals in the Santhal tribe. We celebrate Sohrai after the harvest. It takes place in January, when we invite relatives, share food, and drink alcohol. We eat non-vegetarian dishes with new-harvest rice, and we worship our ancestors for their blessings. In Baha, we pray to Jaher Era, the goddess of the sacred grove. The Jaher is a worship place outside the village, surrounded by teak trees. We celebrate Baha in March.)

Save the dates: kanthari TALKS 2024 are scheduled for Friday 13-12-2024 and Saturday 14-12-2024
And you can not only hear Prashant Tudu’s inspiring stories, but 22 more! Check out www.kantharitalks.org to learn more.
Thank you for sharing and spreading the word.

The post Beyond Hurdles – upliftment for the Santhal Tribe in Jharkand first appeared on kanthari.

By Gloria Anne Achieng

The Chapati Festival: A Window into the challenges

I joined the Kisumu Children’s Remand Home for the “Chapati” Festival, an annual event where people come together to cook, play games, and share meals with children from different institutions.

A 16-Year-Old’s Silent Cry for Help

The event was fun, with entertainment and people cooking together and sharing laughs, but throughout, a 16-year-old boy stood out to me. Juma (name changed) rarely engaged with the other children. He sat in a corner where the water taps were located, watching other children having fun. Sometimes, I saw him stand up, dance a little, and then sit down almost immediately.

Building Trust

When we started sharing food, I went and sat with him and started a conversation about his day. Huma kept quiet. I sat there in silence, and we ate together. That is when he asked me if I understood Dholuo, a language spoken by the tribe from the Nyanza region, and I nodded.

Fear of the Future

He shared with me that the event was good, but he was not settled. I asked him why, and he told me that he was close to being released back into the community but was afraid of what awaited him back home. He shared that was arrested for being in a relationship with his classmate. At the time of the arrest, he was arrested for defiling his girlfriend of the same age because it is believed that the girl child was the weaker gender and, therefore, could not consent.

Psychological Support

He was worried about re-entering his community, that he would be known as the boy who defiles girls, and people would not want to associate with him. He said that he is having issues focusing on his rehabilitation because his mind constantly drifts to the time he will be released from the facility. Juma also stated that because of shame his family did not visit him, and he was generally afraid of returning home. I asked him about counselling, and he told me that they do not receive it at the facility, and if the social workers ask for their information, it could be used against them in court, so they do not open up.

Offer Psychological Care

This was when I started offering psychological support to the children and working independently from the remand home so that I could gain their trust, and they could receive counselling. I began by primarily working with the boy to ensure his psychological needs were met, and he could process what was happening around him.

Learning Through Art

Through this, I realised that most of them had never attended any school or dropped out earlier in life; they could only communicate in their native language, or if they could understand English or Swahili, they could not write; that is when I introduced learning through art for them to learn and express themselves.

Preparing for Life Beyond the Remand Home

After most of the children learnt how to communicate on their own or through art, and after we had established a level of trust, they opened up about a need to gain economic potential. They said that they hoped for a brighter future, but at least needed to learn a skill. That’s when I introduced skill training.

Bridging the Gap Between Facility and Home

Another essential stage emerged when they were to be released back to the community. How could we make it a smooth transition? How could we ensure the support of the family and the community for the child? How do we make the community realise and cope with the issues that resulted in the child’s arrest or removal from the home, and how do we ensure the child’s safety back at home?

Family Reunification, Navigating Complex Relationships

Working with the boy, we introduced our reintegration process. We visited the home before he was released and talked to the family. Initially, they did not want the boy, claiming he was troublesome and a bad influence on the younger siblings. Family dynamics also played a huge role because he stayed with his mother and stepfather, who did not feel obligated to care of him. We conducted family therapy, counselling, and parenting capacity training and once he was released reunited the child with the family.

Alternative Solutions

Not all families allow their children to return, this makes us look for alternative families, like other relatives, or a rescue or rehabilitation centre that may be willing to take in the child.
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A Growing Impact: Gloria’s Work Continues to Change Lives

Gloria’s project began in December 2021. So far, she has conducted 12 household strengthening activities, including rehabilitation, skill training, and family reunification. Over 500 children have received counselling sessions, and 200 youths and women have participated in skill training and discussions on community mental healthcare systems.

The post From Pain to Purpose: Gloria’s Mission to Help Kenya’s Youth in Conflict with the Law first appeared on kanthari.