Growing up in my native village Mbiame (situated in the North West Region of Cameroon), some of the most traumatic moments were the times I met my teachers outside the classroom—whether in the market, on the street, or even in our home. Spotting one of my teachers from afar sent me into a full-blown panic. I would flee into the nearest bush as though running from a masquerade. But why would a pupil be so terrified of their teacher?
The answer lies in an educational system that demanded I engage with my teachers and peers exclusively in English—a language I never spoke or even had access to outside the classroom. Speaking Lamnso, my native language, was strictly forbidden in school. Even when my teachers visited our home, they would prefer to talk to me in English, often as a performance to prove to my parents that I was “learning.” Since my parents didn’t understand a single word in English, hearing me speak the prestigious language would also make them proud, as it symbolized educational progress in their eyes. The thought of fumbling through a conversation in English, exposing my lack of knowledge, was too humiliating to bear. And so, I would choose the bush over the shame.
But the fear of English wasn’t limited to these awkward encounters. It haunted me and other children in the classroom, too. English was not just a subject but the sole medium through which all learning had to happen. Lamnso, my rich native language, was sidelined and rendered irrelevant in my own education. The result? A classroom where fear stifled participation. Pupils, including myself, rarely spoke in class. Our teachers often ended up talking to themselves, as the “English-only” policy silenced us.
Looking back, I realize how much my education could have been transformed if I were allowed to learn through Lamnso, the language I mastered. Instead of fearing English, I could have used my native language as a bridge to understanding it. The rigid English-only policy alienated me from my teachers, discouraged class participation, and hindered the co-construction of knowledge with my peers that could result in meaningful learning.
This story isn’t just mine; it’s a reflection of countless learners across multilingual contexts like Cameroon.
What happens when children are forced to learn only in a language they barely understand? How many bright minds are silenced because their native languages or the languages they understand are excluded from the classroom?
Rasifatu Yiviri | Fulbright TEA Alum | Hornby Scholar | Open Dreams Program Facilitator
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