The year was 2018, and living in the South West Region of Cameron had become a test of courage for anyone who dared to pursue education. The separatist conflict had worsened, casting a shadow over every town and village. Mondays, in particular, were declared "Ghost Town" days by the separatists. On these days, everyone was expected to remain indoors; businesses were shut down for the day, and schools were strictly forbidden from operating on the Mondays. Those who defied these orders risked facing severe punishment, often delivered in brutal ways that left deep scars on the community.
But I was determined to continue my education, even if it meant risking my safety. As a student in a public school, I knew I had to find a way to attend classes without drawing attention. To blend in, I dressed in a mismatched assortment of clothes that made me look like a regular street vendor rather than a student. Instead of carrying my school bag, I used a large market bag packed with my books and notebooks. This disguise was my shield, protecting me from both the separatists who would punish students and the policemen who suspected anyone walking on ghost town days.
The stakes were higher than just my own education. At home, I had an older sibling who was 14 years old and three younger siblings—aged 10, 7, and 4 respectively. Being neither the eldest nor the youngest, I felt the need to set an example for my siblings. I wanted to show them that even in the toughest times, we can still strive for our dreams.
Open Dreams Scholars Ashley, Triumph and Pelagie Therese light candles in memory of school children killed while making appeals for peace and the protection of human life and property
Each Monday morning, I left the house with my heart racing, taking hidden pathways to avoid both groups. The streets, usually bustling with vendors and children, were eerily silent. Even the birds seemed to sing in hushed tones, as if afraid to break the oppressive quiet. Every sound—the door creaking, leaves rustling—put me on edge. With every step, I kept my eyes and ears open, ready to dive behind a bush or duck into an abandoned storefront at the slightest hint of danger.
Yet, no matter how carefully I planned, danger was never far away. Some days, as I sat in the nearly empty classrooms, I would hear whispers of terrible things happening nearby. Teachers would show up late or not at all, and many students were simply too afraid to come to school. I remember one incident clearly: a neighboring school was raided by the separatists. They dragged the teachers and students out into the town square and humiliated them in front of everyone, stripping them of their dignity in broad daylight. The message was clear - education was not welcome in these parts.
In contrast to the other eight regions of the country, schools in the North West and South West regions faced more challenges. While students in other areas studied without interruption, we were caught in a cycle of fear and uncertainty. Each school day was a gamble—would classes hold? Would teachers show up? Would we make it home safely? We faced obstacles and risks that students in other parts of the country could not even imagine. Our education was always under threat, and the impact was felt deeply by every student and family in the region.
Photo: 2021; Dr. Didien Meyahnwi serving with Doctors without Borders (MSF) calls for an end to the bloodshed
The images haunted me, but I refused to give up. For me, education was a lifeline. It was the only way to build a future beyond fear and violence, and I could not let that dream slip away. Even when the coronavirus pandemic struck in 2020, shutting down schools and trapping us indoors for months, I found ways to keep learning. Without electricity or internet access, I borrowed books from friends, studied, made notes late into the night. I shared what I learned with my younger siblings, trying to become a beacon of hope for them during those dark times.
As the pandemic dragged on, it became increasingly difficult to stay motivated. For months, there were no classes, no teachers, and no exams. With no access to regular lessons, my studies stalled. But I knew that resilience was more than just perseverance in the face of fear—it was finding a way forward, no matter how small. I sought out anyone who could help me continue learning, even if it was just discussing lessons over the phone. Each page I turned, every concept I grasped, was a victory against the forces that sought to keep me in the dark.
The Apostolic Nuncio to Cameroon Archbishop José Avelino Bettencourt speaks on the upholding of the right of the child to education
In 2023, the situation took a darker turn. One day, I went to my uncle's town located in the South West region to pay him a visit, hoping to escape the tension of my own town for a while. But the unrest had reached everywhere. As I strolled along a seemingly quiet street, I suddenly heard gunshots ringing out in the air. Panic set in, and people scattered in every direction, seeking cover. My heart pounded as I ducked into an alley, hoping to avoid the chaos.
Peering cautiously around the corner, I saw flames licking up the sides of parked cars, their tires melting into black puddles on the road. Armed separatists were patrolling the streets, searching for anyone who defied their orders. I stayed hidden, my breath caught in my throat, until the sound of gunfire died down. But when I thought the worst was over, I came across a video on a passerby’s phone that showed a scene so horrifying it turned my blood cold.
In the video, a group of armed separatists had captured some young students. The separatists accused them of defying orders by trying to attend school. What followed was beyond anything I could have imagined. One by one, the separatists cut off the limbs of these helpless students as they screamed in pain, pleading for mercy. The sight was unbearable—bloodied hands lying in the dust, the students’ cries of agony echoing long after the video ended. I stood there, unable to move, paralyzed by the brutality I had just witnessed. It felt like a nightmare, but I couldn’t look away. It was a grim reminder that even in my uncle's town, where I thought I might find some respite, the horror of the conflict was inescapable.
Arts work: Homage to one of the pupils massacred in a 2020 school invasion in Kumba.
On the black t-shirt won by the artist is an image of children involved in the Ngarbuh massacre
What happened next exceeded all my expectations. It was not just a threat anymore—it was a reality I could not escape. But even as fear gripped me, a fierce resolve began to build inside. I knew that the separatists were trying to send a message: that pursuing education was dangerous, that it was better to abandon our dreams than to face their wrath. But I could not let them win. I would not.
That very same year, I sat for my GCE Advanced Level exams. It felt like every step I took to get to that examination hall was an act of defiance, a statement that I would not let violence steal my future. The stakes were higher than ever, and I poured everything I had into my studies. My efforts paid off—against all odds, I scored 24 out of 25 points and emerged as the valedictorian of my class.
Middle Photo: A five-year-old shot and killed in the mother's vehicle on her way to school
Waves of fulfillment swept over me. It was not just a piece of paper—it was a reflection of every hardship I had endured: navigating ghost town days, studying through the chaos of the pandemic, and pushing forward despite the fear and uncertainty. Each challenge I faced, every sleepless night, and every difficult day were captured in that moment. It symbolized more than just academic success; it was proof of my resilience and a reminder that no matter how difficult things got, I had the strength to persevere and rise above it all.
Throughout all these hardships, I held on to one simple truth: resilience is about more than just holding your ground—it is about moving forward despite the fear and the uncertainty. It is about holding onto hope when despair seems inevitable. I have learned that the courage to keep going is not about the absence of fear, but rather the determination to act even when the fear is overwhelming.
Open Dreams Scholar Akwa Kelly-Pride on "Education First"
If there is one thing, I hope my story can show, it is that no matter how impossible the circumstances, one must never lose sight of the future. “Courage does not always roar,” as the saying goes. “Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’” Through all the storms and chaos, I have come to believe that there is no defeat unless we choose to stop trying. And so, I continue to try, hoping that one day, the skies will clear, and the path to our dreams will be free and open for everyone.
Open Dreams Pre-Scholar Divine Nnamdi
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